North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  The steamer plowed on across the Gulf, bound for the mouth of the Rio Grande. A sudden storm, not unusual for the season but this time especially severe, damaged the vessel’s port paddle wheel, forcing the captain to anchor off Saint Joseph Island to effect repairs. Lighters took all the military passengers ashore to Corpus Christi. Sometimes known as Kinney’s Ranch, the place was a miserable village of about forty shops and houses on the west bank of the Nueces River.

  The friends went separate ways for a couple of hours. Orry was fascinated by the flat, sandy terrain of the Texas coast. Strolling the muddy main street, he was amazed to see half a dozen antelope browsing behind the unpainted buildings. He absorbed a shopkeeper’s warning about tarantulas and passed it along to George when they met. His friend, however, was interested in other forms of wildlife. But his report was discouraging.

  “I’ve seen exactly one girl. Her face would crack a rock. Maybe I’ll have better luck tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “At the social. The local residents are putting it on for all the poor stranded soldiers. I swear, if I don’t get to squeeze a feminine waist pretty soon, I’ll go berserk.”

  The social was held in a barn on Colonel Kinney’s trading post. Lanterns had been hung and some moth-eaten bunting tacked to the rafters. There was fresh straw on the dirt floor, a fiddler, a trestle table crowded with cakes, pies, and tarts, and a huge bowl of whiskey punch. About eighty officers and noncoms attended, and perhaps half as many townspeople, of which only seven were female. Of these, just one was attractive, and she got most of the attention.

  She was worthy of it. She was a slender, stunning redhead in her early twenties. Her skin was white as thick cream and her eyes the bluest George had ever seen. He wasn’t daunted by her surprisingly tall height or by the dozen officers already surrounding her.

  Some were majors and colonels. They would surely pull rank on him if he tried a direct assault. The enemy had to be outflanked. While the fiddler tuned up, George drifted to the punch bowl, smiling and introducing himself to various townsmen. In five minutes he had made a discovery and formulated a plan.

  He strode firmly as he approached a civilian standing in the large open doorway of the barn. George knew he cut a good figure. He had spent half an hour scrubbing travel grime off his light blue trousers and polishing the brass hilt and scabbard decorations of his yard-long infantry officer’s sword.

  The man he wanted to impress was a ruddy, stub-nosed fellow with short, unruly hair that was more white than red. He wore an old-fashioned suit of black broadcloth. George toasted him with his punch cup.

  “A splendid party, sir. You Texans are good hosts.”

  With a wry smile, the man answered, “In wartime, Lieutenant, patriotism sometimes outweighs prudence.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “In Corpus Christi, public opinion of soldiers is about as low as it can get. Zach Taylor’s troops camped here on their way to the Rio Grande. That was an experience this town won’t forget. Fortunately, Texans know how to protect themselves—and their daughters.” He clapped a hand on the immense holstered pistol hanging at his right hip. The barrel was almost a foot long. A Paterson Colt, George thought, perhaps a .36-caliber.

  “Oh, do you have a daughter with you tonight?”

  The red-faced man gave him an amused look. “I didn’t say that, my lad. But you apparently possess the information. Is that why you came over to talk to me?”

  George gulped, then laughed. “And I thought I was being subtle. You’re right, sir. I knew I didn’t stand much of a chance of meeting her with that crowd around her. An introduction from you would give me an advantage.”

  “You may not be subtle, sir, but you’re clever. However, I can’t introduce you until I know your name.”

  “Lieutenant George Hazard, Eighth Infantry.”

  The stocky man put out his hand. “Patrick Flynn. Born in Cappamore, County Limerick, but I fancy I’m a Texan now. Been here long enough! Arrived the year after Colonel Kinney opened his trading post. Lost my wife that same year, but Constance and I have managed to survive—even though there’s hardly enough legal business to keep a flea from starving.”

  “You’re a lawyer? In this town?”

  “I occasionally spend a month in San Antonio. That’s where I really make my living. They’re very disputatious in San Antonio. I did my reading of the law way up in Belfast. Very good training—all the shipping in Belfast Lough created legalistic tangles on every conceivable subject. A series of misadventures brought me to Texas while Sam Houston was struggling to wrest it away from the Mexicans. I settled in Corpus Christi because I thought this would become a port city with plenty of work for lawyers.” Smiling wryly again, he added, “Development has failed to keep pace with my hopes.” He threw his head back and drained his whiskey punch. “Or my thirst.”

  “But you must like it here.”

  “Oh, indeed.” Flynn nodded. “There’s free air and free space—and none of the snobbish restraints I encountered as a boy in the old country. Some of the local citizens distrust my Roman faith, which I can’t practice since there’s no Catholic chapel hereabouts, but that makes us even, since I dislike the prevailing view of slavery.”

  “I’ve heard most Texans support it.”

  “I regret to say that’s true. I often remark that a man always works harder for the carrot of personal advancement than he does for the stick of the slave overseer. But that’s a truth my neighbors don’t care to hear. Most confine themselves to grumbling and cursing, but there are a few hotheads who would like to run me out for daring to say such a thing. They don’t because they know I am, shall we say, self-reliant.”

  He grinned and again touched the handle of his Colt. “But you want to meet Constance.”

  “Yes, I do. Very much.”

  “I’ll be happy to present you as soon as I rescue her from that pack of dullards—not one of whom displays your imagination. Are you perchance Irish?”

  George laughed. “No, sir.”

  “I shall attempt to overlook the deficiency.”

  The lawyer strode off. George straightened his collar, saw Orry bearing down and signaled him away. Orry looked around, realized what was happening, and joined several other brevet lieutenants standing near the punch bowl with morose expressions.

  Patrick Flynn snatched his daughter out of the group of senior officers. George tried to ignore their hostile looks and fix his attention on the girl. Half annoyed, half amused by the way her father had grasped her wrist and tugged her away, she allowed herself to be brought to George and presented.

  “Constance, this is Lieutenant Hazard. He wanted to meet you and knew he stood a better chance if he spoke to me first.”

  “But how did he know I’d want to meet him, Father?” the girl asked with a tart smile.

  George strained to stand as tall as he could. Lord, I’m still two inches shorter. He grinned and looked straight into her brilliant blue eyes.

  “Give me five minutes, Miss Flynn, and I’ll remove all doubt.”

  Constance laughed. She spied a fiercely mustached major of dragoons stalking them, then took hold of George’s hand.

  “Dance with me, Lieutenant, or we won’t even get that five minutes.”

  He needed no further prompting. The fiddler was scratching out a waltz. George swept Constance past the fuming major and on across the floor. She was soft and sweet-smelling in his arms; so deliciously lovely that he was extremely careful about the way he held her. She noticed:

  “Your touch is very light, Lieutenant. Are you afraid I’ll shatter?”

  “Why, no, you’re not brittle, you’re exceedingly sof—that is—”

  He strangled on the sentence. What the devil was wrong with him? He didn’t usually act this way with a girl. He was behaving like Orry, who was watching him from the punch table. Orry had a big, smug grin on his face.

  For the remainder of the dance, they exchanged inconsequ
ential remarks. He told her a few things about West Point and about his home in Pennsylvania. She repeated much of the information her father had given him. George’s head swam. He simply couldn’t select the right words, let alone deliver them with anything approximating charm. Constance, on the other hand, was completely at ease, smiling and chatting without the slightest awkwardness.

  He soon discovered that she was not only beautiful but intelligent. “Father sent me away to a young women’s academy in San Antonio. He’s in favor of education for women. He’s really quite liberal for a man of his background. He says that believing in the Holy Trinity should never rule out a healthy interest in the secular.”

  George smiled, relaxing slightly. “I like your father.”

  “And he must have taken a liking to you, or he’d never have introduced us. I’m rather glad he did.”

  “You are? Miss Flynn, that’s splendid!”

  In a burst of enthusiasm, he swept her into another whirling waltz figure. A moment later she gently tapped his wrist with her ornamental fan. She wanted him to stop dancing. He obliged.

  He saw grinning faces all around. Even Orry was covering a smirk. Constance whispered to him, “The music ended several moments ago, Lieutenant Hazard.”

  “It did? My God. That is—Miss Flynn, I didn’t mean to curse in front of—“

  “Lieutenant,” she broke in, “I’ll be the one cursing if you permit me to fall into the hands of that dragoon bearing down on us. Please take me for a stroll.”

  “With pleasure!”

  George gave her his arm, then guided her toward the door of the barn. The major with the mustache pursued, looking more affronted every second. He was only three paces behind them when Patrick Flynn appeared to stumble. Flynn crashed against the major, almost dumping punch on his uniform. The lawyer bathed the officer with so much apologetic blarney he couldn’t be angry.

  By then George and Constance had slipped through the door into the darkness.

  “I’m in love,” George said a couple of hours later.

  “So that’s what it is,” Orry said. “I thought it was some sort of nervous condition. I’ve never seen you look so stupefied over a girl. Or act so tongue-tied, either.”

  They were trudging along the riverbank toward the white tents and lanterns of the encampment that had been improvised to shelter the men from the steamer. George started as a big jackrabbit leaped across his path. Then, after a distinctly lovelorn sigh, he said, “I think she likes me. But I’m not positive.”

  “Of course she likes you. She spent most of the evening in your company, didn’t she? And she could have had her pick. Not necessarily of men more handsome than you”—Orry’s mockery was broad but kindly—“but certainly of men she could look up to.”

  George called his friend a name and punched his arm. Orry laughed. Again George sighed. “I hope it takes them a week to repair the steamer. She invited me to dinner tomorrow. Boiled Texas beef and potatoes.”

  “Talking about her cooking already? You do sound as if you’ve found the love of your life,” Orry said quietly.

  “By heaven, you may be right. The instant I put my arms around her, I felt—well, something momentous. But there would be problems if it became anything permanent. She’s Irish. Catholic, too. Up North that isn’t always a welcome combination.”

  “You’re getting serious awfully fast.”

  “I can’t help it. I don’t care, either. George Hazard, master of the fair sex, is for once absolutely powerless. That’s the strangest part.”

  “No, it isn’t. I understand perfectly.”

  George knew Orry had said something, but he was too excited to hear the words, or the note of melancholy in his friend’s voice.

  A distant whistle sounded the last call for the lighter. George shook Patrick Flynn’s hand.

  “Good-bye, sir. You’ve been wonderful to a stranger.”

  “You’re no longer a stranger, lad,” the lawyer said with a swift glance at his daughter. Constance had put on a light shawl and was fussing with a parasol. Flynn laid his free hand on George’s shoulder and pressed gently. “We wish you Godspeed to the battle zone and a safe walk along the pathway of your duty. We want you to come back again.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”

  The words carried more hope than certainty. George had read the papers enough to know that many men had already died in Mexico, not only from enemy fire but from disease. Many others would perish before the war ended. A couple of days ago he hadn’t troubled himself about such things. Now, suddenly, in this ridiculous little village on a barren coast, life had become wondrously precious.

  He and Constance walked out of the house. George stepped off the plank porch into the mud and raised his hand. She closed her fingers on his, then stepped down beside him and opened the parasol.

  It was a dismal autumn day with a hint of winter in the gusty wind. He took charge of the parasol and offered his other arm. She pressed her breast against his sleeve, speaking to him silently that way. It began to drizzle as they hurried toward the pier where the last lighter was loading.

  “Will you write to me, George?”

  “Regularly. Daily! Will you answer?”

  “You know I will. You must come back as soon as you can.”

  “I promise. I want to show you Pennsylvania. Introduce you to my family.”

  He knew Constance could charm them and perhaps even overcome the suspicion of Catholics that was so prevalent in the nation. But if by some chance the family didn’t welcome her, he would no longer consider himself a Hazard. In just these few days, she had become his universe—and his reason for fearing some random Mexican bullet as he had never feared it before.

  “Father’s very impressed by what you told him about your family,” she said. “He thinks most Texans are fools because they won’t admit factories are becoming more important than farms.”

  “My friend Orry’s family won’t admit that.”

  “Southerners can be so narrow-minded sometimes.”

  No more narrow-minded than Northerners, he thought, recalling an incident in Philadelphia the week he had set off for Mont Royal. Obscene words and statements had been slathered in red paint all over the walls of a Catholic church. Even his brother Stanley, no admirer of Papists, had been scandalized, though more by the language than by the motivation for the act.

  Three senior officers sat in the lighter. All were frowning with impatience. The helmsman signaled for George to hurry. Another gust ripped the parasol out of his hand and sent it sailing into the water, where it bobbed like a lacy boat.

  The men in the lighter laughed at him. George didn’t care. His mind and heart were filled with Constance: her fiery hair blown loose by the wind, her blue eyes searching deep into his, her cheeks rain-speckled—

  No, he realized with a start. That wasn’t rain but her tears.

  “Constance, I’ve never said this to any other girl. You may think me rude and forward since we’ve known each other such a short time. Still, I’m compelled”—he drew a quick breath and plunged—“I love you.”

  “I’m in love with you, too, George. Kiss me?”

  “In public?”

  “In public. In private. Anywhere—and forever.”

  The last word came out as a little cry. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him ferociously.

  He pulled her close, his body rising against her to make the parting all the more intense and sorrowful. Her red hair kept loosening and blowing against his cheeks. He felt unmanly tears on his face—not hers, his own—and didn’t give a damn about that, either.

  The helmsman shouted, “Last call, Lieutenant. Get aboard or they’ll report you for desertion.”

  Out by a sandbar the steamer sounded its whistle. George tore away and ran down the pier. He jumped into the lighter, falling against an artillery colonel who cursed him roundly. He sat on the middle thwart as the oarsmen strained and the lighter pulled away. Rain pelted him. He rea
lized he had lost his hat. It didn’t matter.

  Constance Flynn stayed on the pier, her hair completely undone now. It flew over her shoulders and down to her waist like a red banner. “I’ll come back,” George said softly. The officer seated next to him stared.

  He said it again silently, watching the girl’s figure diminish along with the town’s rude buildings. I’ll come back.

  It was a promise, but it was also a prayer.

  11

  SERGEANT JEZREEL FLICKER PEERED at the empty beach. “Not a sign of a greaser. Mighty funny. We sure ain’t made a secret of this here invasion.”

  Seated next to him in the rocking surfboat, Orry growled, “When are they going to send us in, damn it? If there are sharpshooters behind those dunes, they can pick us off like fish in a barrel.”

  Flicker’s moon face remained imperturbable. He was a regular Army man, a laconic Kentuckian ten years older than Orry. Both of them understood that he was the one who ran the platoon. In response to Orry’s nervous outburst he said, “Now, now, Lieutenant. I know you’re anxious to see the elephant. But believe me, it ain’t that pleasant.”

  Orry scowled. It was all very well for Sergeant Flicker to sneer at the glory of battle; he had been in the thick of it at Monterrey and elsewhere and survived. But Orry was as yet untested. He had already spent almost six months in Mexico, and the only guns he had heard were those of the damned volunteers who were always getting drunk and blowing their own toes off.

  Some of Orry’s men were looking bilious; a strong offshore current kept the surfboat in constant motion. Forty feet long, the boat was one of the 150 General Scott had ordered specifically for this assault. Each boat carried an eight-man naval crew and forty to fifty soldiers. Only 65 boats had actually been delivered, and these were strung out in a line just off Collado beach, opposite Sacrificios Island, some two and a half miles below the port city of Vera Cruz. It was here, out of range of the city’s defensive artillery, that Scott intended to launch his drive inland to Mexico City.

  George and Orry were serving in two different companies of the Eighth Infantry. Both companies were part of the first landing wave, along with other regular infantry and artillery units comprising General Worth’s First Brigade. Orry’s platoon consisted of Irishmen, Germans, a couple of Hungarians, and six native-born Americans. Even in peacetime, immigrants made up a large percentage of the country’s military manpower.