North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  “Sometimes it gives me the right,” he complained.

  “Well, not just now. I don’t feel like arguing about it, either.”

  Huntoon’s face mottled. “Is that the way you intend to act after we’re married?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Then she realized she had angered him. In her eagerness to keep him aware of who had the upper hand in the relationship, she had gone too far. She gave him a hasty kiss. “Calm down, James. You know I want to marry you. And after I do, you’re going to have a most distinguished career.”

  “According to plans which you have already mapped out.”

  Now he went too far. White and rigid, she drew away. “My dear, you sound peevish. If you’ve changed your mind about the things we discussed—”

  There she stopped. It was precisely the right strategy. He seized her hand, panicking.

  “No, no. I haven’t changed my mind about anything. I want you to have a role in mapping our future. I’m not like those bullheaded LaMottes. I believe a man’s wife should be his partner. Especially if the man intends to enter public life.”

  “I’m happy you plan on doing that, James. You already have important friends. You’ll make many more. The LaMottes will spend their lives rattling dice and racing horses, and they’ll die forgotten. But not Mr. and Mrs. James Huntoon of South Carolina!”

  He laughed, though somewhat nervously. “Ashton, you’re just wonderful. I’ll wager that if I wanted to do so—if I weren’t the architect of my own destiny—I could place myself entirely in your hands, let you make every decision, and my success would still be assured.”

  Still? Did the fatuous creature believe he could rise in spectacular fashion by himself? He might achieve some minor fame, but without her he would never be truly eminent. He would learn that soon enough.

  “You’re right, my dear.” She gave him a warm smile. Then she kissed him, opening her mouth after their lips touched.

  He had come too near the truth for comfort. She’d marry him, but it would be a marriage conducted entirely on her terms. The poor fool suspected that and had already surrendered himself. But if he dwelled on the surrender too much, it could sour things.

  Thank heaven she knew how to divert him. While they kissed, she laid her palm against the inside of his trouser leg, then began to move it in a small, languorous circle.

  Spring approached. One March evening, Orry retired to the library with a letter from Billy which he read three times. Even after the third reading, he was not certain of his reaction.

  He sat staring into space, the letter dangling from his hand. Shadows lengthened. The stand with his uniform and sword stood in the corner farthest from his chair, barely visible. Just before dark he heard a horse in the lane. Moments later Charles bounded in, his fawn breeches and fine linen shirt sweat-stained. He was grinning.

  “Where have you been?” Orry asked, though he could guess.

  “Riding Minx on the river road.”

  “Racing her, you mean. Did you win?”

  Charles flopped in a deep chair and kicked a leg over the arm. “Yes, sir. I beat Forbes, and Clinch Smith, too. Minx left both their animals half a mile behind. I won twenty dollars.”

  He displayed a couple of gold pieces. Clinking them in his hand, he leaped up. “I’m starved. You ought to light a lamp. This room’s dark as a cave.”

  The advice was probably useless, Charles thought. When Orry fell into one of his moods, he sometimes sat for hours in the pitch-black library. The house men usually discovered him in his chair at sunrise, snoring. There were always an empty glass and a whiskey jug somewhere close by.

  Orry had never completely recovered from his war injury; Charles and everyone else at Mont Royal understood that. But perhaps memories of Mexico and its aftermath weren’t to blame tonight. Perhaps there was another reason for Orry’s melancholy state. It dangled in his long, thin fingers.

  Charles pointed to the letter. “Is that bad news of some sort?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s from Billy.” Orry extended his hand, an invitation for Charles to take the sheet of paper.

  Puzzled by Orry’s words, Charles lit a lamp and read the brief, stilted letter from his friend. Before traveling to the Military Academy in June, Billy wanted to return to Mont Royal and, in accordance with custom, formally request permission to pay court to Brett.

  “This is wonderful,” Charles exclaimed at the end. He sobered abruptly. “Would there be any problem about Billy coming here—with the Huntoons, I mean?”

  “No. I’ve long since paid them thirteen hundred and fifty dollars for Grady, just to forestall trouble.”

  Charles let out a low whistle and sank back into his chair. “I had no idea.”

  A shrug. “I felt somewhat responsible for their loss, and I wanted George to be able to pay other visits to Mont Royal without a fuss. No one knows about the payment except the Huntoons and my father. Keep it to yourself.”

  “Of course.”

  “The replacement cost of a prime buck goes up every year,” Orry continued. “Francis LaMotte predicts it’ll be two thousand dollars by the end of the decade. Last week the Mercury printed an editorial saying the African slave trade should be legalized again. I’ve seen several articles demanding the same thing—well, never mind. We were speaking of Billy.”

  Charles waved the letter. “Does Brett know about this?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ll tell Billy he may come, won’t you? And you will give him permission to court her?”

  “I’m not sure of the answer to either question. Billy’s a fine young man, but he plans to be an Army officer.”

  “So do I. I’ll be going to West Point a year from this summer, remember? Good Lord, Orry—you arranged it. You encouraged me!”

  “I know, I know,” Orry said quickly. “And I’m glad you’re going. On the other hand, since we had our first discussions about the Academy, the situation in the country has changed. For the worse. In the event of trouble, I presume your first loyalty would be to your home state. Billy, however, is a Yankee.”

  Softly: “Do you believe there’s trouble coming?”

  “Sometimes, yes. I just don’t know what kind. Or how far it might go.”

  “But why should it make any difference? The Hazards and the Mains are good friends in spite of what Virgilia did. In spite of everything. If you didn’t believe that—want that—you wouldn’t have paid off the Huntoons.”

  “I suppose you’re right. At the same time, I wouldn’t want to send Brett down a road that would lead to unhappiness.”

  Charles’s manner grew frosty then. “I should think it was her choice.”

  “It’s mine, too. Now that my father can barely manage to get out of bed, I’m the head of this family.”

  They argued for another ten minutes, with Charles citing all the reasons Orry had to grant Billy’s request. In truth, they were Orry’s reasons as well. He was playing the devil’s advocate tonight. He thought he must.

  On the other hand, perhaps he was being unduly pessimistic. Although there were indeed many reasons for anticipating sectional strife, there were others that argued for a different outcome. Southerners still played a vital role in the life of the nation. General Scott, a Virginian, remained the commanding general, and Orry had read recently that Robert Lee, already a good possibility to succeed Scott, would very likely be the next West Point superintendent. In the Army’s officer corps, most of the outstanding men hailed from the South.

  Cooper claimed he saw signs of a new interest in industrialization throughout the region. True enough, slave-grown cotton was still king; annual production was measured in the billions of pounds. But owners of Southern railways were busily expanding and improving their lines. Mont Royal had more offers of cargo than she could handle. Cooper had returned from Britain with new enthusiasm for the future of Southern commerce in general, and his packet line in particular. Perhaps the new ways would g
radually replace the old, and men of good will would push the Rhetts and Huntoons aside, and resolve differences—

  Somehow, though, Orry remained unpersuaded.

  “Orry?”

  He looked up from his reverie. “What?”

  “You will say yes to both questions, won’t you? You’ll let Billy visit, and give him permission to court her?”

  “I’ll give Brett this letter and think about it. That’s the best I can do for the time being.”

  Disappointed, Charles stalked out.

  “He forbade me to read the novel,” Madeline exclaimed. “He snatched it out of my hands and ordered it burned—as if I were a child!”

  She walked toward the edge of the marsh. Orry remained seated on the tabby foundation, tapping the book he had brought to the rendezvous. The book contained a strange new kind of verse by a Northern newspaperman named Whitman. Cooper was lavish in his praise of the rambling poems, claiming they captured the rhythm of the machine age. Orry found them hard going, although the rhythm was certainly there. To him it was the hammer of a drum.

  “I’ll ask George to ship me a copy,” Orry said. “Though why you want to read rabble-rousing trash is beyond me.”

  She whirled to him. “Don’t start talking like Justin, for heaven’s sake. Mrs. Stowe’s novel is the success of the hour.”

  She was right about that. George had written that his entire family had read the sentimental story of slaves and slaveholders, first in serial form and again in its regular two-volume edition, just recently published. Despite all the attention the novel was receiving, however, Orry was frankly not interested in Life Among the Lowly, as Mrs. Stowe’s book was subtitled. He witnessed life among the lowly every day and needed no enumeration of its severities. They nagged on his conscience a good deal of late.

  So in reply to Madeline’s remark, he growled, “It isn’t the success of the hour in this part of the country. A more appropriate term would be scandal.”

  She could easily have taken offense. She didn’t because she knew he’d been fretting over the content of Billy Hazard’s letter, which he had discussed with her at great length. She put her arm around his waist and kissed him just above the tangle of his beard.

  “All you South Carolina men are such hotspurs. I keep forgetting—to my everlasting regret.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that when Justin discovered my copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin last week, the consequences were extremely unpleasant.”

  “He flew into a rage—”

  “He was nearly incoherent for half an hour. But that’s not the worst. The discovery took place a little while before supper. Francis happened to be dining with us that night. The book prompted Justin and his brother to spend most of the meal shouting about the need for a free and independent South.”

  “I’m sorry you have to put up with that sort of thing.”

  She studied her hands. “I didn’t. I said it was fine sentiment for a stump speech but as a practical idea it was ridiculous. I knew speaking out was a mistake, but with those two I just can’t hold my tongue sometimes. Justin, however, is determined that I will come to understand my place—which does not include expressing an opinion about any subject more weighty than the latest—” A catch in her throat interrupted the sentence. The memory was placing her under an extraordinary strain, he realized. In a faint voice, she finished: “The latest decorative stitch.”

  He laid the Whitman aside and clasped her hand. “When you spoke up, how did Justin take it?”

  “Very badly. He locked me in my room for a day and a night. He had Nancy take away all my books and deliver my meals. Nancy was the only person I saw during the entire time. I even had to pass the chamber pot out to her—”

  Madeline bowed her head and covered her eyes. “My God, it was humiliating.”

  “That bastard. I ought to kill him.”

  Quickly she rubbed the tears from her cheeks. “I don’t mean to cause trouble by telling you. It’s just that there’s no one else.”

  “I’d be more angry if you didn’t tell me.” He went striding through the weeds, scattering clinging raindrops that had fallen earlier in the day. “I’d like to kidnap you out of that damned place. Resolute isn’t a home; it’s a prison.”

  “That’s true. It’s becoming harder and harder to tolerate Justin or my position. Once I had fine notions about honor and the sanctity of the marriage vow.” Her mouth wrenched, a ghastly attempt at a smile. “Justin’s turned every one of them into a joke.”

  “Leave him. I’ll go to him for you. I’ll tell him—”

  “No, Orry. It’s too late. Too many people at Resolute depend on me now. I can’t do a great deal to make things better, but I know they would be infinitely worse if I were gone. The only reason I’m able to bear the whole dismal business is you.” She hurried to him, her skirts rustling in the wet weeds. “Just you.”

  She held his waist and looked at him, a film of tears in her eyes. Then, out of a desperate need for affection and simple comfort, she hugged him ferociously. Kissed him again, again.

  He buried his face in her hair, savoring its black sweetness. As always, his body betrayed him. She felt him wanting her and hugged him harder to show she wanted him too. The tension created by their self-denial was always excruciating. Today it approached the unbearable.

  She unlaced her bodice. Pushed her undergarments down. Pulled his mouth tight against her while she threw her head back. She closed her eyes and reveled in the feel of him kissing her breasts.

  They had never gone this far. They only refrained from the final act by desperate strength of will.

  “Orry, we mustn’t.” Her voice was hoarse.

  “No.”

  But he didn’t know how much longer he could stand the strain of loving her, wanting her, and denying that want.

  A couple of days later, after supper, Orry and Charles went to the piazza to sip whiskey. Haze hid the sinking sun, lending its light a pale rose cast. Orry sat watching pink reflections down on the river while Charles leafed through a Mercury. Lately he was spending a few minutes with the paper every day, another sign he was maturing, and in Orry’s estimation a good one.

  Ever since the meeting with Madeline, Orry had felt a renewed physical frustration. He was ready for another overnight visit with a homely but ardent widow with whom he had an understanding. He still hadn’t decided how he would answer Billy. Nor could he decide now.

  Charles closed the paper. “Have you read this yet?”

  Orry shook his head.

  “Huntoon gave another speech.”

  “Where this time?”

  “Atlanta. What is popular sov—? Here, you pronounce if for me.”

  Orry leaned over to see the word Charles was indicating with his thumb. “Sovereignty. Senator Douglas coined the term. It means that once a new territory is organized, the people living there have the right to decide whether to allow or prohibit slavery.”

  “Huntoon says that’s unacceptable, just like the free-soil doctrine. I don’t know what that is, either.”

  “The free-soil doctrine states that Congress has a moral duty to prohibit slavery in new territories. The will of the people doesn’t matter. I can imagine the speech James made.” Orry spread his fingers and pressed the tips against his shirt, like an orator. He spoke pompously. “I stand with the great Calhoun. Slavery must follow the flag. It is the sacred responsibility of Congress to protect all property taken into a territory—”

  At that point he stopped his mimicry. “Property means slaves. That’s the only territorial doctrine most of our neighbors find acceptable.”

  “How do you feel?”

  Orry pondered a moment. “I believe I side with Douglas. So does George, I think.”

  “Well, I’ve been trying to learn about some of these things. I reckon I’d better—I’ll be meeting people from all over the country when I go to West Point.”

  “The question of the territories m
ay come to a boil sooner than that. Some say as soon as we elect a new President this fall. The country out West is filling up fast. Loyalties are going to be severely tested. Family loyalties and others,” he finished with a pointed look at Charles.

  The younger man stretched his legs and studied the river, where only a few wavery touches of pink remained. “You keep worrying about that. It’s the reason you haven’t written Billy, isn’t it?”

  Orry frowned. “How do you know I haven’t?”

  “If you had, Brett wouldn’t act so glum all the time. I reckon it isn’t respectful of me to go into this, but I get the idea you mean to turn Billy down strictly for one reason: he’s a Yankee. That’s just like—” He swallowed. He had reached the hard part. “Just like Huntoon. Or Virgilia Hazard. They sweep every person on the other side into the same bin.”

  Orry was indeed irked by Charles’s presuming to judge him, but the reaction lasted no more than a few seconds. Reason prevailed. Reason and strong emotion—for if Billy courted his sister, that might strengthen the bonds between the two families. Virgilia had come close to destroying those bonds.

  A smile showed in the thicket of Orry’s beard. “You’re turning into a shrewd young man, Charles. I’m glad to see that.” A deep breath. “I’ll compose a letter to Billy tonight. A letter he’ll be happy to receive. You might want to hunt up Brett and tell her.”

  Charles whooped, pumped Orry’s hand, and ran into the house.

  Orry did write the letter that night. He told Billy he’d be welcome at Mont Royal and invited him to bring all the Hazards with him. Except Virgilia, he thought, knowing he didn’t need to put that down. He promised that if the family came, he’d arrange a party or ball to compensate for the unhappy ending of the previous visit.

  He felt good about the letter. It was a small step but a positive one. If Northern and Southern friends didn’t keep peace among themselves, how could the men they sent to Washington be expected to do it?

  31

  THE HAZARDS ACCEPTED ORRY’S invitation. They arrived on Wednesday of the third week in May. Maude was not with them. She had sprained an ankle working in her garden and couldn’t travel.