North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  “Are you a complete idiot, Francis? The bastard hates me! He always has. He’d like nothing better than to see me humiliated in front of the whole neighborhood.”

  “He says that if you set foot on his property, he’ll shoot you.” Francis folded the note. “Do you believe him?”

  “No.”

  “I do.” Anxiously, Francis continued, “Let her go. No woman’s worth your life. Women are like interchangeable parts of a gin. You can get the same service from one that you get from any other.”

  The coarse sophism had great appeal. True enough, Justin wanted to inflict harsh revenge on Madeline for slashing him, on Orry for this latest insult. Yet he hated to traipse around the countryside and further advertise his loss. More important, he really didn’t care to face a gun with Orry behind it.

  Relieved, Francis saw that he might be able to talk his brother out of a vendetta. He laughed and clapped Justin’s shoulder.

  “Look here. If repaying her means so much—”

  “I want to repay both of them.”

  “All right, both. I’ll ask Forbes to think of a way. I assume Forbes is here—”

  “No.”

  “He hasn’t come back?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s peculiar.”

  “Oh, I suspect he and Preston went off to celebrate.”

  The explanation satisfied Francis. “I wouldn’t mind a nip myself.”

  Justin was pouring two whiskeys when the slaves waiting in the rain raised a commotion. The brothers rushed outside to see Preston Smith arriving. He was wild-eyed and as mud-spattered as his horse. He jumped down and staggered to Francis.

  “I ran all the way to your plantation. They told me you were here.”

  “Preston, what’s the trouble?”

  “That Yankee soldier killed Forbes.”

  Little Francis LaMotte seemed to wither and shrink even more. Preston glossed some of the details, but he couldn’t distort the story too much, not and make it comprehensible. It was evident that Forbes and Preston had botched their plan for revenge and that Forbes had earned what he got.

  Strangely, Francis could find little anger within himself. He felt tired, old, beaten. Later he might want Charles Main’s head, but at the moment he experienced only a grieved lethargy.

  “Francis?” Justin touched his sleeve. “I’ll go with you to Mont Royal.” He hated the thought.

  Dry-eyed and stooped, Francis shook his head. “I must go home. I have to tell his mother.”

  He mounted and, with his slaves in single file behind him, slowly rode away in the rain.

  “Should you be up?” Orry asked from the foot of the staircase.

  “I feel fine,” Madeline said. “Better than I have in a long, long time.”

  He believed her. Although she was exceedingly pale, her eyes were clearer than they were when he had spoken to her earlier. He waited as she came down the stairs, pushing at her unbound hair with an embarrassed expression.

  “I must look frightful.”

  “You look splendid.”

  “My dress is a ruin—”

  “Madeline, it doesn’t matter. It only matters that you’re here.”

  He longed to put his arm around her, hold her close, and kiss her. He ached for that. Images of their meetings at Salvation Chapel swept through his mind. He remembered the struggle to contain or deny his feelings. All at once he was in the midst of that struggle again.

  “I’d like to walk outside,” she said.

  “It’s raining.”

  “Yes, I heard it when I woke. But the air’s so sweet and invigorating. I’ve been tired for months—constantly.”

  And inexplicably withdrawn, unapproachable, Orry added to himself. Another thought occurred to him. “Have you been taking any medicine?”

  “What?”

  “Medicine. Certain kinds might make you feel worn out most of the time. Lonzo Sapp is Justin’s physician, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Has he prescribed anything?”

  “A celery tonic, but that was—oh, months and months ago. So far back, I hardly remember, though I do recall I only took it for a few weeks.”

  “And there’s been nothing else since?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better, whatever the reason. It’s been a grim day, a grim time, but it’s over.”

  When he had spoken with her upstairs, he had briefly described the events involving Billy and Charles. She had expressed dismay over Forbes’s behavior but little surprise. Orry had yet to tell her he had banished Ashton and her husband. As for the letter to Justin, he’d keep that to himself, at least until he learned whether it was effective.

  Medicine. The word set off a new and startling sequence in Madeline’s mind. She tried to recall all the occasions when her food had seemed to have an odd taste. It had happened many, many times. But never once had she been clever enough or devious enough to guess that her husband might be responsible. Could some drug have been introduced to pacify her? That Justin would do such a thing was likewise a startling idea, but not an unthinkable one. She would never have proof, she supposed. Still, such a scheme on his part would certainly explain her months of lethargy and indifference.

  “Madeline?”

  His soft, anxious voice interrupted her reflection. She turned to him.

  “You had a fearful look on your face. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking about Justin. What do you suppose he’ll do about my leaving?”

  “I trust he’ll do nothing.”

  She crossed the foyer. “I’m never going back.”

  He followed, opened the door for her. “That makes me very happy.” He released the knob and faced her. Longing put a catch in his voice. “I’d be happier still if you’d stay with me.”

  She stood gazing at the rain, her arms folded across her breasts and her hands clasping her forearms. “I love you for saying that, my darling. But are you quite certain you’d be willing to risk the scandal?”

  Standing behind her, he laughed. “What’s a bit of scandal in a world losing its mind?” His right hand closed on her shoulder. “I’d risk the pit of hell for you, Madeline. Don’t you know that?”

  She pressed her left hand over his. “Gossip about adultery isn’t what I’m talking about.”

  “What, then?”

  She turned, drew a long breath. “Something no one knows, except perhaps a few people in New Orleans who are very old now.”

  She gazed at his bleak, tired face. In view of all that had happened today, she could no longer conceal it.

  “My great-grandmother came from Africa to New Orleans on a slave ship. I’m one-eighth Negro. You know very well what that means in this part of the world.” She showed him the back of her white, veined hand. “In the eyes of most people, my skin might as well be black as a lump of coal.”

  The revelation left him thunderstruck for a moment. And yet, compared to the other shocks of the day, this had no power to affect him. Brushing his palm over her cheek, he said in a gentle voice:

  “Is that all there is to tell?”

  “Not quite. My mother’s origins meant she was unfit to associate with white men except in one capacity. Unable to better herself except in one way. She was a prostitute. My father found her in a house in New Orleans, but he loved her enough to take her out of there and marry her—despite what he knew about her.”

  “I love you the same way, Madeline.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to feel you had to say—”

  “The same way,” he repeated, bending to her mouth.

  Her first kiss was shy. After so many months apart, they were very nearly strangers; tired strangers, at that. But he soon felt the emotional tides rising, the tides so long dammed.

  She leaned back, her hands locking behind his neck. Rain blew in from the darkness to spatter her forehead and glitter in his beard. “Of course”—hope was shining in h
er eyes now—“there’s little chance of the secret’s ever coming to light. Those few who know are very old and far away.”

  Again he kissed her. “I don’t care. Understand? I don’t care.”

  With a little cry, she pulled herself against him. “Oh, my God, how long I’ve loved you.”

  He felt her body tight to his, her breasts and her billowing hip. Her windblown hair tossed against his cheek. “I love you too.”

  “Take me upstairs.”

  “Madeline, are you sure—?”

  She stopped his words with a kiss. “We’ve both waited too long, Orry.” She kissed him again, fervently. “Far too long.”

  “Yes,” he said, moving with her toward the stairs. “So we have.”

  In the dark of his bachelor’s room, she bared herself without shame. With her gentle, compassionate hands to help him, so did he.

  Orry feared she’d be repelled by the sight of his stump. He was grateful for the dark that hid it. She kissed him and touched him everywhere, including that ruined part of him. She shared his flaw as he had shared hers earlier, with no qualm. She brought her nakedness to him, and their emotions surged like floodwaters let loose. Their relief was immense and complete. They drowned in each other, rose to float in lassitude awhile, then drowned again as new tides seized and hurled them on.

  Presently they lay drowsing, her arms around his chest, her murmurs a counterpoint to the comforting sound of the rain and to a halloo from Charles down in the drive; he was evidently calling to one of the sentries he had posted.

  Well, he could handle the guarding of Mont Royal for an hour or two. Orry wouldn’t have disturbed the moment for anything. He had never known such joy.

  During Madeline’s first days at Mont Royal, she suffered an assortment of symptoms. She complained of itching skin and a thirst no amount of water could quench. During the daylight hours, chills alternated with periods of sweating. Asleep, she often raved and mumbled. The doctor Orry summoned could diagnose nothing more specific than female complaint, and he issued that pronouncement with noticeable uncertainty. He prescribed three tonics, none of which Madeline would take.

  She flew into unprovoked rages, although about the tenth day these began to occur less frequently. At the same time her symptoms moderated, then disappeared altogether.

  Marked improvement followed at once. She lost her pallor. Her flesh was once more pink with life. Soap and hard brushing restored a glow to her black hair. She regained ten pounds, which rid her of the haggard look that had been her lot for more than a year.

  Charles had kept the armed slaves on watch for two weeks. There were no visitations by either of the LaMotte brothers, no threats in any form. Yet it was clear that events in the dueling field had come to light. Cuffey had visited the field and found Forbes’s body gone.

  One afternoon Charles encountered Francis while riding on the river road. Charles reined in, his heart beating hard. The older man’s accusation was brief and blunt:

  “Your friend murdered my son.”

  “Killed,” Charles corrected. “He killed Forbes after accepting a challenge. Nor was the fight a fair one. Preston Smith tampered with my friend’s pistol. I’m sorry Forbes is dead, Francis, but I’m willing to testify to the circumstances at any time. In front of a magistrate or on the dueling ground. Your choice.”

  Francis gave him a long, bitter look and rode on.

  That was the end of it.

  Gradually Charles relaxed the vigilance at Mont Royal. Orry studied a medical book from his father’s extensive library and discovered that Madeline’s recent symptoms matched those of a person whose regular dosage of laudanum had been abruptly withdrawn. Why had the doctor pretended ignorance? Orry supposed it was because, being a local man, the physician was acquainted with Madeline’s husband and didn’t want to involve himself in an unsavory domestic matter. Better to appear incompetent than to antagonize the LaMottes.

  Madeline and Orry speculated that Justin for months had secretly been administering tincture of opium to dull her senses. Certainly it would have been possible with the connivance of the house slaves. The circumstantial evidence, as well as her new energy and restored clarity of mind, lent further credence to the theory. But they would never be sure.

  In the evenings, after Charles had taken supper with them and left, Orry and Madeline liked to discuss the day’s news from Charleston. There was precious little of it that could be termed reliable. One day the Mercury would proclaim that Anderson’s garrison was about to be withdrawn; the next, the story would be characterized as just another rumor. It went on that way until mid-March, while Beauregard diligently rearranged the batteries, the better to bombard Sumter if bombardment became necessary.

  Other rumors warned of relief flotillas steaming from the North. But the only representatives of the Yankee government who showed up were three men sent to assess Anderson’s situation. One of the three was a Colonel Lamon, known to be a crony of Lincoln’s.

  Presumably the new President was making up his mind about the fort. Governor Pickens continued to insist that any attempt to provision or reinforce Sumter would be repulsed. President Davis also repeated his promise to take Sumter by force if it could not be won by negotiation.

  Such pronouncements deepened Orry’s gloom. He felt that the entire South was being led down a dark road toward an even more stygian darkness. His dreams were filled with drumming, screaming, gunfire; the fools who prated of glorious war on behalf of injured honor had never whiffed a day-old battlefield corpse.

  The national situation turned his thoughts to the money George had put into the Star of Carolina. Guilt about the investment weighed more heavily on him with each day that passed. Early April brought a fresh spate of rumors, including a persistent one that a relief force had put out to sea from New York. Huntoon and the other fire eaters repeatedly called for action against the fort in the harbor. All this pushed Orry to a decision.

  Charles tried to argue him out of it, saying that if war erupted, he was absolved of responsibility. Orry countered that war absolved him of nothing, since George wouldn’t have risked a penny in such a chancy enterprise were it not for personal friendship.

  He took the train to Atlanta and remained there seventy-two hours. When he boarded another train to go home, he was carrying a small satchel.

  He arrived in Charleston on the night of April 11. He trudged through milling crowds to Tradd Street. Cooper was astonished to see him.

  “I went to Atlanta,” Orry explained. “I mortgaged Mont Royal.”

  “What?” Cooper looked almost witless with surprise.

  “We owe George part or all of his investment. We owe it now, before the firing starts. I raised six hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He nudged the satchel with his boot. “Cash.”

  “For the entire plantation? That’s a fraction of what it’s worth.”

  “I was lucky to get anything. I want as much from you as you can come up with, and I want it immediately.”

  “How do you propose I get that kind of money?”

  “You have collateral. The shipping company and the James Island property are still valuable.”

  “Orry, the local banks won’t give loans now.”

  “Try.”

  Cooper looked at his brother’s worn face and saw no ground for argument. “All right.” He sighed. “In the morning. I’ll see to your room. You need some sleep.”

  Orry wakened in the dark, hearing thunderclaps. Red light glared through the shutters he had closed against the spring breeze. He thrust the shutters open. A shell arched high over the rooftops, then dropped.

  He rushed downstairs. Cooper, Judith, and the children were at the windows. “What time is it?”

  “Four, four-thirty, something like that,” Judith answered in a sleepy voice.

  “That sounds like the harbor batteries.”

  Another boom, another flush of red beyond the roofs and steeples. The floor shook. Cooper nodded and put his arms ar
ound his children in a protective way. Orry had never seen his brother so sad.

  “It’s all over. We’re at war,” Cooper said. After a moment he added, “I don’t think the banks will be doing business this morning.”

  66

  MAJOR ANDERSON CONTINUED TO return the vastly superior fire of Beauregard’s guns until late on the afternoon of the twelfth, Friday. But the situation of the garrison was hopeless, and he and every other man in the fort knew it.

  By some miracle, no one had died during the thirteen-hour bombardment. Anderson reckoned it was only a matter of time, however. He was thinking of asking for terms, particularly the right to give a formal military salute to the flag flying over the fort, the Stars and Stripes, before he ordered it lowered for the last time.

  Up at Mont Royal, Orry was packing a small carpetbag with a razor, strop, soap, some shirts, and underdrawers. He threw the carpetbag into the carriage along with the satchel of money. The satchel was closed by a small, cheap lock, the key for which reposed in his watch pocket. The lock could be easily forced, but he figured he would attract less notice with two ordinary valises—one held in his hand, the other gripped between body and arm—than he would with one bag and a bulging money belt.

  Madeline kissed him and tried to hide tears of anxiety. She knew the risk he was taking, traveling north just now, but she said nothing.

  Not so Charles, who had reluctantly agreed to take him to the flag stop in the carriage.

  “You shouldn’t go, Orry. You owe him nothing.”

  “I owe him my life. Drive.” He slammed the carriage door behind him.

  Clarissa slipped up beside Madeline, whom she didn’t recognize, and waved cheerfully to the departing stranger. Madeline wondered if she would ever see him again.

  On Sunday a freight derailment in North Carolina blocked the northbound line and delayed Orry’s train six hours. Passengers in the first-class coach talked of little besides the Sumter crisis. From the accents and the sentiments he heard, Orry judged most of the speakers to be Southern. A few hundred miles north that situation would reverse. He would need to be very careful about what he said, and to whom.