North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  She stuck out her tongue and retched four times.

  Brett hugged the pillow to her stomach, overcome with laughter. In the low country, parents still decided which young men were suitable companions for their daughters. Ashton was old enough to have several beaux, but so far Huntoon was the only one who had received Tillet Main’s permission to call.

  Brett wanted to continue the teasing, but a noise from outside drew both girls to the window. United by their curiosity, they watched a ghostly figure on horseback gallop up the lane, flash through a patch of moonlight, and disappear in the direction of the stable.

  “That was Cousin Charles,” Brett said in an awed voice.

  “’Course it was,” Ashton said. “He must have been off sparking Sue Marie Smith. Either that or one of the nigger wenches.” The idea made Brett blush.

  Ashton giggled. “If Whitney Smith ever finds out that his cousin Sue Marie is fooling with Charles, there’ll be the devil to pay. Sue Marie and Whitney are engaged.”

  “When are you and Huntoon announcing your engagement?”

  Ashton yanked her sister’s hair. “When hell freezes!”

  Brett threw a grazing punch at Ashton’s shoulder, then retreated to her bed. Ashton faced the moonlit window, rubbing her palms back and forth across her stomach and wrinkling her nightgown in what Brett considered a perfectly shameless way.

  “I guess Sue Marie can’t help herself with Cousin Charles. Or any boy. They say her drawers are as hot as a basket of Fourth of July squibs. I know how she feels,” Ashton concluded with a soulful sigh. “You wouldn’t, though.”

  Brett punched her pillow and turned away, more hurt than angry. Ashton eclipsed her in wit, and beauty, and accomplishments. No doubt she always would.

  Ashton had more courage, too. She took chances. In that way she was a lot like Cousin Charles. Maybe lawyer Huntoon would tame her down. Brett hoped so. She liked her sister, she supposed, but sometimes Ashton’s antics just plain wore her out.

  James Huntoon wore round spectacles and an invisible mantle of righteousness. Although he was only six years older than Ashton, he already displayed jowls and the beginning of a paunch. The facial fat spoiled a countenance that was otherwise handsome.

  Huntoon’s family had been in the state a long time, but it lacked about fifty years of being as old as that of the Mains. The first Huntoon in Carolina, an immigrant who could neither read nor write, had settled in the hills up country. A member of the next generation had discovered that being an ignorant dirt farmer in the midlands was not the path to prominence and had removed to the coast, where sharp dealing and some lucky land acquisitions had generated substantial wealth within two more generations. The Huntoons intermarried with several distinguished families and in this way gradually acquired a pedigree.

  Most of the family acreage was gone now, a casualty of the same peril that had ruined the LaMottes—bad management coupled with a too-lavish style of living. James Huntoon’s elderly parents subsisted on the charity of relatives. They occupied the family’s run-down plantation house, attended by five Negroes too old to find other purchasers. It had been clear to James from very early in life that if he wanted to survive and prosper, he could not live on the land.

  Fortunately the Huntoons still possessed an impressive set of friends and acquaintances; in South Carolina the fact that a family had lost its wealth did not necessarily destroy its social standing. Only unacceptable behavior was certain to do that. So James knew all the right people to call on when he set out to make his way in Charleston. He read law in one of the leading firms and had recently established his own practice in the city.

  Tillet thought most of the Huntoon clan unworthy of notice; while members of other important families worried about the state’s future, the Huntoons nattered about the past and behaved as if the crushing problems of the present didn’t exist. But Tillet sensed potential in James, even if the young man did disdain the hard work sometimes demanded of a lawyer. Certainly Huntoon’s contacts throughout the state gave him every chance for success.

  Huntoon also liked politics and was an effective orator. Philosophically, he was aligned with those who were eager to see the state and the region assert independence in an increasingly hostile world. One such was Robert Barnwell Rhett, the influential editor of the Charleston Mercury. Huntoon’s mother was related to Rhett by marriage.

  Huntoon had first seen Ashton last winter at a theater in Charleston. Clarissa had brought her daughters to town for the social season, and the family had occupied a box for a performance by the noted actor Frederic Stanhope Hill. He routinely included Charleston on his tours, as did most theatrical luminaries.

  The moment the young lawyer set eyes on Ashton Main, he was struck by a consuming lust. She was lovely and, though still young, already voluptuous. Huntoon sent a card to Clarissa requesting permission to call whenever the parents deemed their daughter was of suitable age.

  Several months and one birthday went by before Clarissa responded with a short, polite letter. Other girls began receiving callers at fourteen, so she and Tillet would not gainsay Ashton. But she put the would-be suitor on notice. “My husband agrees with the low-country maxim which states that a woman’s name should appear in the papers twice only—once when she marries and once when she dies. I mention this so as to completely inform you about his attitude toward improper behavior of any kind.”

  Duly warned, Huntoon initiated his courtship with traditional gifts—flowers first, then kid gloves and French chocolates. He had now progressed to visiting alone with Ashton indoors for short periods. To be alone with her elsewhere—to go riding without a chaperone, for example—was as yet out of the question. Huntoon did his best to bridle his lust. One day, if everything went just right, that splendid body would be his.

  He had to admit Ashton frightened him a little. She wasn’t outwardly unconventional, yet she possessed a saucy boldness not typical of girls of her age and station. He did admire her regal air, which some called arrogance. He admired Tillet Main’s wealth, too.

  As for the others in the family, he was unimpressed. Clarissa was a harmless old soul, and Ashton’s little sister horridly drab. Huntoon shrank from any contact with Orry—a one-armed ghoul—and as for Cooper Main, who went strutting about Charleston as if he actually had some right to call himself a Southerner, Huntoon believed he should be run out of the state on a rail. The four gentlemen who had accompanied Huntoon to Mont Royal this morning shared that view. One was Rhett of the Mercury.

  “The convention has been called for June,” Huntoon said to their host. “In Nashville. Delegates from all the Southern states will attend for the purpose of appraising Senator Clay’s resolutions and determining a common response.”

  “June, eh?” Tillet scratched his chin. “Won’t they vote on the resolutions by then?”

  Another of the visitors chuckled. “I wouldn’t say it’s likely given the present split in the Congress.”

  Huntoon’s lips pursed, an unconscious reaction to the scrutiny he was receiving from Orry, whom Tillet had somehow persuaded to come to this meeting. Orry demonstrated his reluctance by sitting slouched in a corner with his legs crossed, a silent observer.

  Why was the damned ghoul watching him? Orry had nothing to say about his sister’s beaux. Huntoon concluded that the attention was a product of simple dislike. It was mutual.

  “Should this Nashville meeting be held at all?” Tillet questioned. “You told me it isn’t an official convention of the party—”

  Rhett stood suddenly. The fifty-year-old editor dominated the gathering, as he usually dominated any he attended. “Tillet, my friend, you’ve been away from public affairs too long.”

  “Busy making a living, Robert.”

  The others laughed. Rhett continued, “You know as well as I that for twenty years and more our adversaries have preached a doctrine of animosity toward the South. They have injured our sensibilities with their lies and systematically robbed us with
their peculiar tax on Southern agriculture, the tariff. What’s more, many of our worst enemies can be found within the ranks of the Democratic party. Hence the party in South Carolina has slowly withdrawn, until it can be said that we are merely in sometime alliance with the national organization rather than active members of it. In no other way can we express our antipathy for the party’s views and practices.”

  Orry spoke up at last. “But if we don’t like the way the party’s doing things, isn’t it easier to change that from the inside than from the outside?”

  Rhett looked askance. “Mr. Main, I consider the question unworthy of any man born and raised in this state. In the South, for that matter. One does not compromise with sworn enemies. We have been subjected to Northern aggressions for twenty-five years. To right that situation, wouldn’t we be foolish to appeal to the very men who have caused it? We can redress grievances only by following one road: that leading to independence.”

  Calhoun was dying, and many said the legislators had already chosen Rhett to replace him in the Senate. Tillet could understand why. He was irked to note that his son looked unimpressed, dubious even.

  “Personally,” Rhett added, “I too see little need for this Nashville convention, since I find the whole idea of compromise poisonous. But I’ll support the convention for the sake of Southern unity.”

  “With all due respect to my distinguished relative,” Huntoon said with one of his waspish little smiles, “some of the rest of us, although in favor of a self-reliant South, are not quite ready to go along with what you and the Mercury are propounding these days.”

  With a bleak expression, Orry said, “Dissolution of the Union.”

  “Precisely,” said Rhett, who reminded Orry of a victorious gamecock just then.

  Orry glanced away, unmistakably disapproving. Two of the visitors signaled Huntoon with their eyes, for Tillet was looking skeptical too. Huntoon suppressed lewd thoughts of Ashton, whom he had not yet seen, hastily crossed his legs, and seized control of the conversation.

  “We have come here not to discuss that subject, Tillet, but to ask your support for the Nashville convention. To ask for it in a very tangible fashion, in fact. You have recently expressed interest in once again involving yourself in state affairs.” A guarded nod from the older man. Huntoon pressed on. “The South Carolina delegation will incur expenses traveling to Tennessee and for meals and lodging while the convention deliberates. We thought—”

  That’s why they’re here, Orry said to himself. Money. He heard no more of the conversation. He had agreed to attend the meeting as a favor to his father. He now regretted the decision.

  Tillet was soon won over. He promised to donate five hundred dollars to help underwrite the delegation. Disgusted, Orry continued to stare out the window. Someone knocked. He fairly leaped to answer and gladly excused himself and slipped outside in response to his sister’s whispered summons.

  “What’s wrong, Ashton?”

  Brett came rushing up behind her sister. Both girls were wide-eyed with fright.

  “It’s Cousin Charles,” Ashton said. “He’s in awful trouble. There’s a man here demanding he give satisfaction in a duel.”

  21

  “WE CAN’T FIND COUSIN Charles anywhere,” Brett said as the three of them rushed outdoors. “That’s why Ashton interrupted your meeting.”

  Orry stomped along the piazza toward the visitor waiting beside his horse. “Most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Cousin Charles has no business fighting duels. He’s just a boy.”

  “I don’t think that’ll make a mite of difference to the gentleman,” Ashton said breathlessly. Orry decided she was right. Icy pride and hostility showed in the exaggerated way the young dandy tipped his out-of-style beaver hat.

  “Your servant, Mr. Main. My name is Smith Dawkins.”

  “I know who you are. State your business.”

  “Why, sir, I thought these young ladies might have communicated the nature of it. I am here as a representative and kinsman of Mr. Whitney Smith, who last evening came upon Mr. Charles Main of this plantation dallying with his fiancée Miss Sue Marie Smith. The gentlemen exchanged words and Mr. Main struck a blow, whereupon Mr. Smith demanded satisfaction. I am here to make the arrangements. I presume you are authorized to act as Mr. Main’s second?”

  “I’m authorized to do nothing of the kind. What you’re proposing is against the law.”

  Dawkins fairly dripped contempt. “You know as well as I, sir—the code duello is widely practiced despite South Carolina law.”

  The young whelp was springing a trap, and a damnable one. Cousin Charles couldn’t avoid the trap unless he wanted to appear cowardly. Of course, by saving his face and his honor, he might lose his life. That was what made the code so idiotic. If Mr. Smith Dawkins had seen Churubusco, he wouldn’t court death so blithely.

  The visitor jammed his hat onto his head. “If you could possibly direct me to Mr. Main’s second or, barring that, to the gentleman himself—”

  Orry sighed and gave up. “I don’t know where to find Charles right now. I’ll act as second.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to travel all the way to the other side of the Savannah River to avoid prosecution?”

  “My party promises absolute discretion and no witnesses other than family members. If you can give a similar assurance, there is no need for the meeting to take place in another state.”

  Considering the size of the Smith clan, the witnesses could number in the hundreds. Orry let that pass, however. He gave a brusque nod of agreement. “Go on.”

  They talked for another five minutes, settling on conventional dueling pistols the following Tuesday morning, just after sunrise. The site was to be a clearing known as Six Oaks, two miles up the river.

  Pleased, young Dawkins tipped his hat once more and rode away. Orry looked thunderous as he left the porch to find Charles and convey the bad news.

  The two girls had watched the scene from behind one of the columns. Ashton started to call to Orry as he left. Brett jerked her sister’s arm and put a warning finger to her lips. For once Ashton took someone’s advice.

  Orry decided to say nothing about the duel to Clarissa and Tillet. His mother would worry, and his father would probably want to watch. Orry hoped to keep the meeting low-key, if possible. More important, he wanted to conclude it without injury to Charles.

  At this time of the morning the boy could usually be found loitering near the kitchen where he cadged grits or a slab of fresh cornbread. But none of the kitchen slaves had seen him today. Orry headed for the stable, deciding it would be easier to search on horseback. Distantly, a shot rang out.

  He changed direction and walked rapidly down the road to the slave cabins. Behind him, several of the kitchen women speculated about the reason for his furious expression.

  Orry flung one leg over the split-rail fence, then the other. On the far side of the field of stubble, Cousin Charles was practicing the measured step of a duelist pacing away from an opponent. From his right hand hung a huge, rusty pistol Orry had never seen before.

  Orry stood motionless until Charles took his tenth step and pivoted. The boy swept the pistol up with a wild, jerky motion. As he turned, he saw Orry by the fence, his beard and his pinned-up shirt sleeve flapping in the breeze. Charles’s eyes flew wide, but he completed his turn and fired.

  The puff of powder smoke drifted away. Orry hurried forward. “Smith Dawkins was just up at the house,” he called. Charles looked wary as Orry came to a halt, glowering. “We made the arrangements for this splendid enterprise of yours. Pistols, next Tuesday. It seems I’ve become your second.”

  “I thought you didn’t approve of dueling.”

  “I don’t. You and the rest of these country cavaliers haven’t the faintest notion of what real fighting’s all about.”

  The boy tried one of those dazzling smiles. “Spoken like a true soldier.”

  The response was a g
lare. Charles stopped smiling. “I’m sorry you became involved, Orry. I lost track of the time last night. Didn’t leave Sue Marie soon enough. Otherwise this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “But it did. We proceed from there. What do you know about guns?”

  “Not much. I reckon I can learn all I need to know, though.”

  “Not the way you’re going about it.” Orry aimed a scornful finger at the rusty pistol. “Where’d you get that monstrosity?”

  Charles’s eyelids drooped. He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

  Stolen, Orry thought in disgust. “Well, the first thing we do is get rid of it.” He snatched the weapon and threw it high and far.

  “Here!” Charles shouted, reddening. “I have to practice.”

  “We’ll use my Army pistol. Dueling pistols are generally flintlocks, but even with that difference my gun will give you a better approximation of the kind you’ll probably use. Something between a sixty and a seventy-caliber, I expect. One more thing. On a dueling pistol you’ll usually find a hair trigger. The way you turned a minute ago—jerking your arm up like a vane on a broken windmill—a dueling pistol would have gone off much too soon. You’d have hit the sky or the trees and left your opponent with all the time he needed to kill you. Steady and smooth is the shooting style you want.”

  Orry began walking back toward the road. When Charles didn’t follow, he turned and waved. “Come on. You’re fighting next Tuesday, not next year.”

  “I thought I would do this on my own—”

  The words trailed off, blurred by the breeze blowing through the sunlit field. Charles’s expression had grown resentful, defiant almost.

  “If you want to get yourself killed through ignorance,” Orry shouted back, “you certainly may do it on your own.”

  White-lipped, Charles blurted, “Why should you want to help me? You don’t like me.”

  “What I don’t like, Charles, is your behavior for the last year or so. If that’s the same as not liking you, so be it. But I still have a responsibility for your welfare. I can’t stand by and let Whitney Smith commit murder. Come with me or not, as you like.”