North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  “If there are consequences, as you call them, I shall be proud to bear them.”

  His mind floundered. What was he to do with her? He tried another tack. “I wouldn’t be so quick to say that. There are also plenty of men in Pennsylvania who hate abolitionists. Violent men.”

  “Is that what success and money do to you, George? Rob you of principle and replace it with cowardice?” Like an affronted queen, she rose and left the room.

  Constance pressed her palms against her eyes. “I can’t stand her any longer. What an obsessed, wretched creature she is!”

  He reached out to take her hand and calm her, but his gaze remained fixed on the door through which Virgilia had vanished.

  “It goes beyond obsession,” he said softly. “Sometimes I don’t think she’s sane.”

  Eyes open and bulging, discolored tongue jutting between clenched teeth, the man hung from a rafter. From the angle of his head, it was clear the noose had snapped his neck.

  Below the slowly turning, rigor-stiffened form, half a dozen men spoke in low voices. Two held smoking torches. Behind them stood long crates bearing painted inscriptions: GEOR. AL. MISS. One of the crates had been torn open with a crowbar. It contained new carbines.

  Mortally terrified, Grady saw all this through a crack in the barn door. He had been sent from Philadelphia to the outskirts of Lancaster with a coded dispatch, two pages long. The man to whom he was to deliver the dispatch was hanging in the barn. Thank the Lord he had heard the voices as he crept through the feedlot and stopped in time.

  He started to sneak away again. A sow suckling piglets honked loudly as he passed her pen. The noise brought an armed man to the barn door.

  “Stop, you!”

  Grady broke into a run. A shot whined over his head.

  “Catch that nigger. He saw us.”

  Grady ran as he had never run in all his life. Now and then he risked a look back. The men were pursuing on horseback. Behind them, the bright red barn was bathed in the sullen light of a December sundown. All at once flames licked from the hayloft, then began to swallow the huge, gaudy hex sign painted on the building. They had fired the place.

  Their shots fell short but drove him on. He scrambled wildly over a stone stile, lost his balance, and smashed his mouth hard as he fell. Blood dripped, but he paid little attention, panting as he plunged into thick woods. He finally eluded the horsemen by lying in cold water under a creek bank for half an hour. Only then did he realize the price he had paid for his life. As he touched his upper lip, tears brimmed in his eyes.

  Next morning he staggered into the hovel in Philadelphia. There he permitted himself to break down at last. His thoughts tumbled out.

  “Captain Weston’s dead. I saw him hanging. They burned him, too, right along with his barn. They almost got me. I ran and fell. The wires came loose. I lost my teeth. Goddamn it, I lost my teeth.” Tears rolled down his cheeks as he slumped in Virgilia’s arms.

  “Now, now.” She held him, stroking his head. “Don’t cry. Captain Weston wasn’t much of a leader. He talked too much. Too many people knew about him. Someday another man will come along, a better one. Then the revolution will succeed.”

  “Yes, but—I lost my new teeth, goddamn it.”

  She cradled his head on her breasts and didn’t answer. She was gazing past him, smiling faintly as she imagined white blood flowing.

  38

  ASHTON TURNED THE KEY, then tested the door to be certain it was locked. She rushed across her bedroom, pulled the shutters in, and latched them. She tried to counsel herself against panic, but with little success.

  She took off her clothes, layer after layer, flinging the garments every which way. Naked, she stepped in front of the pier glass and scrutinized her reflection.

  Could anyone tell? No, not yet. Her stomach remained smooth and flat. But it wouldn’t stay that way long. About ninety days had passed since the trip to West Point. Her recklessness had caught up with her.

  It couldn’t have happened at a worse time. About a month ago, sick of Huntoon’s constant importuning, she had given in and agreed to marry him in the spring. At that time she had already missed one flow. She told herself it was because of some slight female problem that would clear up, and not the consequence of the enjoyable night in the powder laboratory.

  But the problem didn’t clear up. And Huntoon spoke with Orry; a date in March was chosen. Now she was trapped.

  “Godamighty, what am I going to do?” she asked the dark-haired girl staring at her from the glass.

  Orry. She’d go to Orry. He’d be kind and understanding. She managed to convince herself of that for all of five minutes, while she dressed and touched up her hair with comb and pins. Then she realized she was a ninny. When she thought about it seriously, she knew her brother would never agree to do what she wanted.

  Brett, then? She ruled that out instantly. She was damned if she’d give her sister the satisfaction of knowing she was in a fix. Besides, Brett was much too cozy with Orry these days. Chasing him everywhere, conferring with him over this and that, as if she were the mistress of Mont Royal—presumptuous little bitch. If Ashton confessed to her, Brett would run straight to their brother and snitch.

  A dreadful pinpoint headache began in the center of her forehead. She unlocked the bedroom door and walked slowly down the hall. At the bottom of the staircase she thought she felt a quiver in her middle. Frantically, she pressed her fingers against her skirt, searching for signs of growth.

  She felt nothing. Must be gas. Lately every part of her had been upset.

  Brett appeared from the back of the house, a letter in her hand. “Billy’s studying chemistry. He says Professor Bailey is just wonderful. He shows them how chemistry applies to all sorts of things, like the manufacture of guncotton, and the heliograph—”

  “Think I give a hang about Billy’s affairs?” Ashton cried, dashing past her.

  “Ashton, what in the world is the matter with you late—?”

  The slammed front door chopped off the rest.

  Terrified and half blinded by the low-slanting December sunlight, Ashton went running down to the Ashley. She nearly pitched off the end of the pier before she realized where she was. For a while she gazed at the light-flecked river and toyed with the idea of suicide.

  But a gritty inner streak rebelled. James Huntoon might be a soft, silly slug, but he traveled in important political circles, and he was becoming more influential all the time. She didn’t intend to throw away her marriage, or the opportunity it presented, by drowning herself like some simpering heroine in a Simms novel.

  What to do, then? Where to turn? By behaving as she had, she had courted this kind of trouble, and although she had known she might be tripped up, she had never prepared for it in any practical way. Well, there was no help to be found at Mont Royal. All the nigger women hated and distrusted her. It was mutual. Nor did she consider her poor mother as a possible source of assistance. All Clarissa did was drift through the house with a fey smile, or sit for hours rubbing out lines she had inscribed the day before on the family tree.

  “Damn,” Ashton said to a great blue jay grouching at her from a wild palm. “There isn’t a single person in the whole state of South Carolina who’s smart enough or trustworthy enough to—”

  Abruptly, a face floated into her thoughts. She could help, if anyone could. At least she might know to whom Ashton could turn. Everyone said her niggers just worshiped her. Moreover, they trusted her implicitly.

  But how would she feel about the solution Ashton was determined to achieve? Some women thought that sort of thing a sin.

  Only way to find out is to ask, she said to herself. What choice did she have unless she was willing to suffer utter ruin? Which she most definitely was not.

  Surprisingly, the more she thought about her inspiration, the better she felt. She slept soundly and looked clear-eyed and rested when she came downstairs next morning, fancily dressed and carrying her gloves and parasol.


  Immediately after she called for the carriage, Orry appeared from around the corner of the house. His right sleeve was rolled up, and there was a hammer in his hand.

  “My, aren’t you pretty today,” he said, tucking the hammer in his belt.

  “I declare, Orry—you must think I’m some old chore woman who never fixes herself up. That’s Brett, not me.”

  He fingered his long beard and let the remark pass. “Going calling?”

  “Yes, sir, over to Resolute. It’s been way too long since I paid my respects to Madeline.”

  A wrinkled black footman opened the door. “Mistress Madeline? In the music room. If you’ll please wait here, I’ll announce you, Miss Ashton.”

  He marched away with a stately stride. Another door opened. Justin poked his head out.

  “Who’s that? Oh, Ashton. Good morning. Haven’t seen you over this way in an age.”

  “Yes, indeed, it’s been too long.” Ashton smiled. “You look wrought up, Justin.”

  “Why not?” He strolled toward her, holding up a copy of the Mercury. “More of those infernal Republican groups are forming up North, and they all want the same damn thing—repeal of the fugitive-slave laws and the Kansas-Nebraska bill.”

  Ashton sighed. “Isn’t that just terrible? Orry said there was one better piece of news, though. He told me that out in Kansas they elected a pro-slavery delegate to the Congress.” She was never completely sure of such things: “Didn’t they?”

  “’Deed they did. But a lot of good men had to ride over the border from Missouri to ensure that the election would come out the right way. I hope to heaven this new party withers on the vine. It’s clearly nothing more than a combination of Yankee fanatics out to do us dirt.”

  Slapping the paper against his palm, he left. Ashton was grateful. She was nervous. She fished a bit of crisp lace from her reticule and dabbed her upper lip dry. The footman returned to conduct her to the music room.

  Madeline rose to greet her, smoothing her skirts and smiling. It was a polite smile, but that was all; the two women had never been more than acquaintances. Ashton’s eyes flicked to the little book Madeline had laid on the table: Walden, or Life in the Woods. She’d never heard of it. People said Madeline read a lot of trashy Northern books.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure, Ashton. You’re looking fit.”

  “So—so are you.” After that hesitation, she gained control of herself, resolving to do the best job of acting she had ever done.

  “May I ring for some refreshments?”

  “No, thank you. I came here to talk very seriously to you. No one else can help me.” With an exaggerated glance over her shoulder, she added, “Is it all right if I shut the door to keep our conversation private?”

  Madeline’s dark brows lifted. “Of course. Is someone in your family sick? Is it Orry?”

  Ashton rushed to the door and closed it. She might have noticed the way Madeline mentioned her brother with a catch in her voice, but she was too preoccupied with her own performance.

  “No, they’re all fine. I’m the one in need of assistance. I won’t mince words, Madeline. I don’t know of another soul I can trust to advise me. I certainly can’t go to my family. You see, a few months ago, I—” This time the pause was deliberate, designed for a poignant effect. “I committed an indiscretion. And now I’m, as they say, in trouble.”

  “I see.”

  Mercifully, Madeline’s tone held no condemnation. She gestured to a chair with a pale hand. “Please, sit down.”

  “Thank you. It’s such a strain bearing the secret all by myself. I’m just about out of my wits—” Tears sprang to her eyes almost the second she willed it. Why not? She was desperate. Everything had to work perfectly, or she was finished. There would be no second chance here.

  “I can understand,” Madeline murmured.

  “You know so many people in the neighborhood—they all think so well of you—that’s why I knew I could speak. Beg your help—”

  “I gather you don’t want to have the child?”

  “I can’t! I’m to marry James in the spring. The date’s already set. I love him, Madeline—”

  Did the lie sound believable? Under her skirts her knees were shaking. She pressed them together.

  “But God forgive me—” She sighed a little too much on that, she thought. She cast her eyes down to her lap. “The child is not his.”

  “I won’t ask whose it is. But I’d be less than honest if I didn’t say this about the solution you’re seeking: morally, I disapprove of it.”

  Now, Ashton thought in a panic. Now! Don’t hold back. She leaned forward from the waist, her sobs so artful they almost felt real to her.

  “Oh, I was afraid you might. So many women do. I appreciate that you have your convictions. I freely admit I’ve been sinful. But must I lose James and see my entire life destroyed because of one stupid mistake? Can’t you at least give me a name? I know there are people in the low country who help girls in trouble. I’ll never reveal the source of the information. Just tell me where to turn.” She laced her hands together, as if in prayer. “Please, Madeline.”

  Madeline studied her guest. Gradually, the sight of Ashton’s reddened eyes overcame her suspicions. She glided to the younger woman with a rustle of skirts, slipped her arm around Ashton’s shoulder, and said as Ashton clasped her hand:

  “Calm yourself. I’ll help you. I can’t pretend to believe it’s right. But then, as you say, neither is it right for your life to be wrecked because of a few moments of uncontrollable emotion. We all have those,” she added. Then, thoughtfully: “I know of a woman who lives back in the marshes. She said I could call on her if I ever needed help. It wouldn’t be safe for you to go to her alone. You’d need a companion.”

  Ashton’s upturned face had grown bright with hope. Madeline took a long breath, as if she were about to dive into a deep pool—which was almost the way she felt, not really wanting to involve herself in the problems of this shallow, prideful girl who turned to her only because she was desperate. Yet Ashton was a human being and in need of help. It was Madeline’s misfortune always to be swayed by those considerations.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said suddenly. “It will take me a few days to make arrangements and obtain directions. I’ve never visited Aunt Belle before.”

  “Oh, thank you. Oh, Madeline, you’re the most wonderful, compassionate—”

  “Not so loud, please,” Madeline cut in, though not harshly. “I’ll have to confide in my servant, Nancy, but beyond that only you and I must know. We don’t want anything to hurt your reputation or cause trouble for you.”

  Nor do I want any trouble out of this, she said to herself in the wake of some nervous thoughts of Justin.

  The preparations were intricate. First, contact had to be made with the midwife. Nancy handled that. Then a date had to be chosen, and Ashton informed by means of a sealed note smuggled to Mont Royal by the one man Nancy could trust, a big tea-colored slave named Pete with whom she had been living for over a year.

  Several days before the appointed date, Madeline told Justin that she wanted to travel to Charleston to do some shopping. He muttered his consent, scarcely paying attention when she said she’d be gone overnight. He did insist that she take a male slave with her, and Nancy, too. She had expected that stipulation.

  The night before the fictitious Charleston trip, she slept very little. Justin lurched into her room around eleven; he and Francis had been sitting downstairs for the last two hours, drinking and cursing the anti-slavery agitators in Kansas. He approached her bed without a word. He flung her nightdress above her waist, put his hands around her ankles and pulled her legs apart. Ten minutes later, still having said nothing, he left.

  She hated his crude lovemaking. But at least when he visited her this way, he returned to his own room afterward and left her in peace the rest of the night. Now there was no chance of his detecting her nervousness.

  In the morni
ng—a sunny, pleasant day, exactly two weeks before Christmas—Nancy packed Madeline’s valise. At noon Pete brought the chaise around, its hood in place to protect them from the elements. During the past hour the sun had disappeared, and the weather looked threatening. Madeline didn’t want to travel the back roads in a storm, but it was too late to make other arrangements.

  Once out of sight of Resolute, she took the reins from Nancy. Pete trotted along at the left side of the chaise. In this fashion they proceeded to a deserted crossroads where Ashton was waiting in her buggy. She looked pale and anxious.

  Pete took Ashton’s buggy and drove away into the pines. He had a friend nearby, a freedman, and would stay with the man’s family overnight, meeting the women at the crossroads about the same time tomorrow. Ashton spent a few moments chattering about her excuse for being away from Mont Royal; it also involved staying with a friend, a nonexistent one. Madeline heard Ashton’s voice, but few of the words registered.

  The three women crowded into the chaise, Ashton in the middle. It was evident to Madeline that Orry’s sister didn’t like squeezing against a Negress, but she’d just have to put up with it.

  Madeline tugged the reins and the chaise got under way. She glanced apprehensively at the swift-moving slate clouds. She was feeling more and more nervous about this expedition. One thing was in their favor, however—the remote location of Aunt Belle Nin’s cabin. It lay far back in the marshes above Resolute, accessible only by dirt roads that seldom saw any traffic. Madeline believed they had an excellent chance of reaching Aunt Belle’s without encountering another soul and certainly no one who would recognize them.

  When they were about halfway to their destination, the sky grew black and the rain came, along with a high wind and pellets of hail. The road, here running beside a murky marsh, quickly turned to gumbo. Madeline stopped the chaise.

  The hail and rain let up after ten minutes, and the wind moderated. Madeline flicked the reins over the back of the horse and they started on, only to founder within fifty yards when the left wheel sank into a muddy rut.