Love and War

by John Jakes

  She raised a fist, then forced it down to her side before continuing. “You may do whatever you wish in private. But if you ever again show yourself in public with that trollop—an hour after you paraded at the Patent Office, it was all over town—I will enlist a regiment of lawyers to strip you of your last penny. I will do it even though every property law in the land favors husbands over wives. Do you understand?”

  A fine spray from her mouth struck him. He scrubbed his left cheek with the back of his hand. She had made him angry.

  “Yes. I see how it is. You don’t care a damn for me. It’s only my money that holds you. My money, my position—”

  The morning wind became a chorus of eerie voices, whispering. Isabel seemed touched with sadness, although, after a shrug, her reply was firm. “Yes. The war’s changed many things. That is all I have to say.”

  He was too upset to notice the unsteadiness of her step as she left. In a moment she paused to look back, and the sunlight struck her eyes, lending them the brightness of the reflecting sea.

  “I did rather like you when we were courting, though.”

  She turned and walked away through the sand ribbons and scurrying shore birds.

  Stanley wandered up and down the beach for a while. With a blink, he realized he was wearing his royal blue frock coat. He groped in the large inner pocket—ah! Shuddering with relief, he pulled out the flask and uncorked it. He swallowed half the remaining bourbon, then staggered to a large rock and sat down.

  A fishing smack hove into view, coming around from Narragansett Bay. Scavenging gulls swooped close to the stern. Stanley felt very close to being ill, with a monumental sickness no doctor could name or cure.

  A word Isabel had hurled surfaced in his churning thoughts. The changes had done it. There had been too many, too rapidly. Boss Cameron’s patronage, unexpected financial opportunity, great personal profit achieved without his brother’s help or interference.

  Change bestrode the country like a fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. A mob of free niggers had been loosed in the land to frighten God-fearing white people with their strange dark faces and, worse, to upset the economic order. Just last month a freedman had brazenly applied for a job as floor sweeper at Lashbrook’s. Dick Pennyford hired him. After his first day, the Negro was waylaid at the gate and beaten by six white workers. That grieved and angered Pennyford, but he wrote Stanley that it also taught him a lesson. He wouldn’t repeat the mistake.

  Stanley knew who was responsible for such incidents and for the new assertiveness of Negroes. His friends. It was their program he was forced to pretend to admire if he wanted to preserve and expand his influence in Washington. That pulled him two ways, left his nerves shredded. There were so many changes he could hardly count them all. He was independently wealthy. He was a confidant of politicians who would control the nation within a very few years. He was in love, or thought so. He was a known philanderer. And he was far along the road to becoming a drunkard and didn’t give a damn. He finished the bourbon and threw the flask at the tide line, a futile gesture of rage. No hiding from the truth any longer. He was incompetent to deal with so much change. On the other hand, his status was such that few, if any, of the problems created by the changes would affect him adversely, provided he conserved his capital and observed a certain hypocritical standard of behavior. That was the most staggering change of all. One so vast and bewildering that he leaned over, elbows on his knees, palms on his eyes, and cried.

  Stanley would have been surprised to know that his wife, whom he considered glacial and a shrew, also wept that morning. Safely locked in her rooms at Fairlawn, Isabel cried much longer and harder than he did. Finally, when she had exhausted her tears, she settled down to think and to wait for the redness to leave her eyes, so she could again show herself to the servants.

  Her husband was lost to her except in name. Well, so be it. She had used him as an instrument for accumulating new wealth, and with it she could now finance a rise to unprecedented social eminence in Washington, her home state, and the nation. By no stretch of the imagination did Stanley have the ability to become a national political figure. But he already had the money to buy and sell such men. Since she would always guide his choices, that made her the true possessor of the power.

  Putting aside her brief and regrettable descent into sentimentality here and on the beach, Isabel contemplated all the days of glory still ahead. She was sure she would experience them if she could only keep Stanley in favor with the Republicans and sober. Success had ruined him, for reasons she could neither understand nor identify.

  It didn’t matter. Many a strong queen had ruled through a weak king.

  109

  AT THE END OF the day on which Billy rejoined the Battalion of Engineers, he wrote:

  June 16—Petersburg (4 mis. distant). Steamer journey to City Point uneventful but very hot. Saw the great pontoon bridge at Broadway Landing, 1 mi. above the piers where I disembarked. How I wish I’d come back in time to help create such a marvel. Maj. Duane, cordially greeting me upon my arrival at this encampment, said no longer pontoon bridge had ever been built by any army, anywhere. It stretches nearly half a mile, shore to shore, & where the tidal channel runs, a drawbridge section permits the passage of gunboats. Gen. Benham & the 15th & 50th N. Y. Engineers (Vols.) built the bridge in a record 8 hrs. The sight of it renewed my pride in my branch of service.

  The battalion crossed the bridge not long before I saw it. Our encampment is at Bryant House, the temporary Second Div. hospital, but we are to move on. Received a warm welcome from many old comrades; all wanted to hear of my escape from Libby, which I said unknown Union sympathizers arranged. Even belatedly, C. might in some way be harmed by the truth; he is such a fine friend & risked himself so greatly for me, I will not permit it to happen through any act of mine.

  Thoughts of C. sadden me. My brotherly affection remains unflagging; & I am now twice in debt to him for saving my life. But he is not the laughing fellow I first met in Carolina & came to know at W.P. The war has hurt him somehow. I felt it powerfully. If I were of a literary turn, I might seek metaphors. Some spell has changed the bear cub to a wolf.

  Hungry; will continue later.***

  Receiving assurances of my fitness for duty—leg is still painful but am walking with less difficulty—M?j. D. said that when we move nearer the enemy works, I shall be doing survey work, practically on top of the rebs. He then went on to enlighten me about the essence of the siege plan:

  Through Petersb., a town of less than 18,000, pass all but one of the major Confed. RR’s from the S & SW. Thus the P’burg junction is the south end of Richmond’s last supply line. Take P.—which U.S.G. has already tried once—& Rich, withers and dies. It cannot happen too soon for me. I have already remarked in these pages about the distressing—***

  Interruption. Rushed outside in response to a shattering roar. Was told it is “Dictator,” also nicknamed “the Petersburg Express,” a great 13” seacoast mortar of 17,000 lbs. From a specially reinforced flatcar, the mortar fires explosive shells into the city from a location on the P’burg-City Pt. RR line. I must note a new & startling change I observed in the Army of the Potomac, viz.—large numbers of negro soldiers, where none were seen before. I hear their bravery & intelligence praised lavishly; just yesterday, the CT (Col. Troops) Div. of E. W. Hinks mounted a successful attack on a sector of the enemy defense line.

  My time in Libby did teach me how men long enslaved must feel. I yearned to murder Clyde Vesey and was unashamedly glad when C. shot him during the escape. I now accept emancipation as the only course this country can, in conscience, pursue.

  Yet on some things, I hold back. I am thus far unable to look upon negroes in army uniform as the equal of white men in the same uniform. I am ashamed of that reservation—weakness?—but it is there. The day closed out with an unpleasant incident bearing upon this general subject.

  The battalion marched 18 mis. today, in merciless heat, with water in
short supply. Despite the cheery reception given me, I could tell the men were cranky. Two negro soldiers, sgt’s in some reg’t of Gen. Ferrero’s 4th (Col.) Div., chanced to pass through with pouches of official papers for City Pt. It was not unusual for them to ask for a drink of water in this hot weather. But they were not allowed it. Three of our worst-tempered led the sgt’s to the casks, which two proceeded to block with their bodies while the third danced around dangling the dipper just out of reach of the two colored sgt’s, all the while chanting the old tune “Zip Coon “ in a derisive manner. The sgt’s, who outranked our three, again politely asked for water, were refused, and ordered that it be given—which caused side arms to be drawn by the tormentors and (stupidly) a request to be made that the negroes perform what one of the trio termed “a shuffle step.” He fired 2 rounds at the ground to stimulate obedience, at which point the unfortunate sgt’s wisely ran away. What stings most is this. A doz. or more of the battalion stood around enjoying the discomfiture of the sgt’s, and the few who did not laugh openly condoned the callous actions by saying & doing nothing to stop them. To my shame, I must here confess that I was among the silent.

  I could plead tiredness or some other excuse, but in this jrnl. I try to hew to the truth. On this occasion the truth is painful. I looked at those 2 black men as something less than what I am—therefore of no consequence.

  I have suffered stinging attacks of conscience ever since. I was wrong today—as thousands in this army who think and behave the same way are wrong. Libby is still working its change upon me. New thoughts and impulses stir—so unsettling, I cannot help wishing they would go away. But they won’t, any more than the negro question will go away. Though countless millions might like to do so, we can no longer push the black man through some door & lock him out of sight, content to believe his color renders him unworthy of our concern & relieves us of responsibility to treat him as a fellow human being.

  It is a shameful thing I did—rather, did not do this afternoon. Writing it down helps somewhat. It is a first step, albeit not one which will induce a relaxation of my conscience.

  I do have a conviction there will be other steps, however; where they will lead I cannot say, except in a most general way. I think I am starting down a road I have never walked, nor even seen, before.

  110

  ALONG THE ASHLEY, THOSE old enough to remember the Mexican War and how Orry Main came home from it thought history had repeated itself with Orry’s older brother. Orry had lost an arm, Cooper a son. Hardly the same thing, yet the results were oddly similar. Each man was changed, withdrawn. The less charitable gossiped about severe mental disorder.

  Cooper no longer insulted the occasional Mont Royal visitor by forcing him or her to listen to radical opinions. It was presumed that he still held such opinions, though one couldn’t be positive. He limited his conversation with outsiders to pleasantries and generalities. And although Sherman’s huge army was rumbling down on Atlanta, he refused to discuss the war.

  But it remained very much on his mind. That was the case one hot June evening when he sequestered himself in the library after supper.

  Cooper loved the library with its aroma of fine leather mingled with inevitable low-country mustiness. There in the corner stood the form holding Orry’s old army uniform. Above the mantel spread the realistic mural of Roman ruins, which Cooper had delighted in studying when he sat on his father’s knee as a boy.

  Although the orange of sunset still painted the wall opposite the half-closed shutters, he lit a lamp and was soon in a chair, using a lap desk to write. The metal nib scratched so loudly he didn’t hear the door open. Judith walked in with a newspaper.

  “You must look at this Mercury, dear. It contains an overseas dispatch that came through Wilmington day before yesterday.”

  “Yes?” he said, glancing up from the memorial he was drafting to send to the state legislature. It argued for preventing further loss of life any means of a cease-fire and immediate peace negotiations.

  His question said he wasn’t greatly interested in interrupting the work to read overseas dispatches. So Judith said, “It concerns the Alabama. A week ago Sunday, she went down in the English Channel. A Union vessel named Kearsarge sank her.”

  Instantly, he asked, “What of the crew?”

  “According to this, many survived. The captain of the Kearsarge picked up seventy, and a British yacht that sailed out of Cherbourg harbor to watch the engagement saved another thirty officers and men.”

  “Anything about Semmes?”

  “He was one of those rescued by Deerhound, the yacht.”

  “Good. The men are more important than the ship.”

  He made the declaration with such feeling that Judith couldn’t help rushing to his chair and throwing her arms around him. The Mercury fell on crumpled sheets of writing paper discarded on the floor.

  “Cooper, I do love you so.” She hugged his shoulders. “Everything’s in disarray around us. Mont Royal has never looked shabbier. There isn’t enough food. Everyone’s frightened of those men living in the marshes. Yet I couldn’t be more thankful to be here with you. Even with so much uncertainty, Marie-Louise is happier, and I am, too.”

  “So am I.”

  “I hope you didn’t mind this interruption. I thought you’d want to know about the ship.”

  He reached up to pat her hand, staring away past the Roman mural to unguessable seascapes of the past. “She was a beautiful vessel. But she served the wrong masters.”

  Suddenly rising from his chair, he kissed her long and ardently. The embrace left her gasping, with curls out of place. She was enraptured to see a teasing smile.

  “Now, Judith, if you truly do love me, let me return to my labors. I must finish this memorial, even though our heroic legislators will tear it to shreds and dance on it. The ones who’ve never heard guns fired in anger will tear the most and dance the hardest.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. But I’m proud of you for trying.”

  “There are no ordained results in this world, I’ve discovered. The trying is what counts most.”

  She left him scribbling in the last of the dusty orange daylight. She had worked hard all day—since returning, she had taken on many of Madeline’s duties—and in the late afternoon had spent an hour with Clarissa. Though Cooper’s mother was unfailingly pleasant, her memory loss made such visits taxing. By supper Judith was exhausted. Yet now, closing the library door, she felt light as a wisp of breeze-blown dandelion seed. Carefree. Sherman’s host might be marching across the moon instead of into Georgia.

  For the first time since Charleston, she was certain. Her beloved husband was a new, healed man.

  It was Benjamin who wielded the velvet ax. After the fact, Orry realized he was the logical choice because of his suave, diplomatic style. The summons came a few days after the reception at Treasury.

  “First, I must establish that I am speaking on behalf of the President,” Benjamin said to Orry, who sat rigidly on the far side of the desk. “He hoped to see you in person, but the press of duties—” A supple gesture finished the thought.

  “The President wanted to express deep gratitude for your concern for his welfare—specifically, your warning of a possible plot against his life. Not to mention the lives of a number of the rest of us,” he added with his customary sleek smile.

  Orry felt sweat trickling to his collar. In the summer heat, the voices of State Department functionaries sounded sleepy beyond the closed door. That was the moment the image of the velvet ax popped into his head.

  “The plot was undoubtedly like many others we hear about—chiefly wishful thinking inspired by barroom bravery. Nevertheless, your loyalty and diligence have been noted and commended by Mr. Davis. He—Is something wrong?”

  Orry’s tight expression answered that. The government still didn’t believe his story. Then and there, he decided to take a step he had only considered until now. Using personal funds, he would hire an agent to carry out
a plan he had in mind. He would do it right away.

  He forced himself to say, “No. Please go on.”

  “I have given you the sense of the President’s message.” Manicured hands folded, the secretary oozed sincerity. “Now I have one or two questions of a personal nature. Are you content with your post in the War Department?” When Orry hesitated, unsure of the purpose of the question, Benjamin prompted him with, “Please be frank. It will go no further.”

  “Well, then—the answer’s no. I think we both know the likely outcome of this war.” He expected no agreement with that and got none. “I hate to sit out the final months authorizing passes for prostitutes and monitoring the misdeeds of a martinet.”

  “Ah, yes, Winder. Are you saying you’d like field duty, then?”

  “I’ve been considering it. Major General Pickett offered me a place on his division staff.”

  “Poor Pickett. Never have I seen a man so transformed by a single event.” Benjamin sounded sincere but immediately slipped back into his official mode. After a slight clearing of his throat, he said, “There is one other subject which I regret I must discuss with you. Your sister’s accusation against your charming wife.”

  The words slid into him like a stiletto of ice. He had been waiting for the matter to come up in some fashion. He had agonized over the best way to deal with it and reached a decision that pained him because it went against his conscience. But Madeline mattered more.

  He sat very erect now, his posture a kind of challenge. “Yes? What about it?”

  “To put it to you squarely—is it true?”

  “No.”

  Benjamin showed no sign of being relieved, no reaction of any kind. He continued to study his visitor. Am I such a transparent liar? Orry thought.

  “You realize I was compelled to ask the question on behalf of the administration,” Benjamin said. “The cabinet—indeed, it’s fair to say most of the Confederacy—is experiencing a terrible schism on the matter of enlisting our Negroes in the army. The mere statement of the idea drives some of our most influential people to the point of incoherence. So you can see the enormous potential for disruption and embarrassment if it were found that the wife of a high War Department official—”