by John Jakes
The primary purpose of North and South is to entertain. Still, I wanted the story to be an accurate reflection of the period; not so much a retelling of every last incident that contributed to the outbreak of war in Charleston harbor, but a fair presentation of prevailing attitudes and tensions on both sides.
There were, for example, voices like Cooper Main’s here and there in the South. And when the cavalryman O’Dell speaks of the need to resettle new freedmen in Liberia, he is only saying what quite a few Northerners said—including, on occasion, Lincoln. Many who were strongly in favor of abolition did not believe blacks worthy or capable of full participation in American democracy; regrettable as that view may seem today, to distort it in a historical novel, or omit it altogether, would be a disservice to accuracy and to all those who have struggled so hard to change such attitudes.
Although I have tried to make the book historically correct, there have been minor alterations of the record in a few places. There has always been a reason for such alteration. A couple of examples should demonstrate.
Company K of the Second Cavalry Regiment served with distinction in Texas in the late 1850s. The officers and men of my Company K are, of necessity, fictitious, and so is the incident at Lantzman’s—although it is not unlike those that actually took place during the period. Details of life and activity of this famous regiment are faithful to the record.
Sometimes I have made a change for reasons other than the requirements of the story. In memoirs of West Point life written in the last century, for instance, the plural form of demerit is spelled the same way—demerit. I added an s because in a contemporary book, the correct spelling looks like an error.
Another question I heard during the writing—this one, too, occasionally put forth with a distinct edge—was this: “And which side do you take?”
I never answered because I always found it the wrong question. I see only one worthy “side”;—the side of those who suffered. The side of those who lost their lives in battle, and those who lost their lives more slowly, but no less surely, in bondage.
Here we confront another great lure of the subject: its fascinating and tragic paradox. The schism should not have happened, and it had to happen. But that is my interpretation; as one historian has said, “Every man creates his own Civil War.” The statement helps explain the fascination of the conflict, not only for Americans but for millions of others around the world.
It is time to pay some debts. A great many people played a part in the preparation of this book. Foremost among them are two editors—Carol Hill, who helped shape the plan, and Julian Muller, who did the same for the manuscript. The work of each was invaluable.
For assistance with research I must especially cite the Library of the United States Military Academy, West Point, and particularly the map and manuscript librarian, Mrs. Marie Capps.
The reigning expert on the Academy in the mid-nineteenth century is, I think, Professor James Morrison of the history department at York College of Pennsylvania. Professor Morrison is also a former Army officer and West Point faculty member. He answered many questions he doubtless found naive and spent precious time providing me with a copy of the Tidball Manuscript—a memoir-of life at the Academy by Cadet John C. Tidball, class of 1848.
Tidball’s narrative deserves publication and widespread attention. If professional historians wrote with a fraction of the color, humor, and humanity of this nineteenth-century soldier, history would be a more attractive study to many more people. At the end of the handwritten Tidball papers, I found myself wishing I had known the man. I know I would have liked him.
The Beaufort County, South Carolina, Library and its branch on Hilton Head Island were once again of inestimable help in locating scores of obscure source materials. I owe special thanks to Ms. Marf Shopmyer, who kept faithful track of my seemingly endless requests for books, documents, periodicals, and newspapers of, and dealing with, the period of the story. Appreciation is also due to the cooperative staff of the South Carolina State Library, Columbia; I have seen few research libraries to equal it.
My thanks to Rose Ann Ferrick, who once again brought not only superior typing ability to a heavily marked manuscript, but sharp-eyed and frequently witty editorial judgment, too.
Having acknowledged the assistance I received, I must now stress that no person or institution cited should be held accountable for anything in the book. The story, and any errors of fact or opinion, are solely my responsibility.
The late Bruce Catton gave us writing about the Civil War that is without equal. Since first reading Catton, I have never forgotten his metaphor “the undigestible lump of slavery.” So much said in just five words. I have made free use of the metaphor in the book and here acknowledge that fact.
The good counsel and good humor of my attorney, Frank Curtis, have been a source of strength and cheer. I also owe a special debt to Mike and Judi, whose friendship I prize and whose kindness helped me through dark days that inevitably accompany any long stretch of creative work. I don’t expect they know how much they buoyed me, which is why I thank them now.
Lastly, I thank Bill Jovanovich for his continuing interest in the project, and my wife, Rachel, for her never-ending support and affection.
JOHN JAKES
Hilton Head Island
August 24, 1981
Love and War
The North and South Trilogy (Book Two)
John Jakes
For
Julian Muller
No writer ever had a better friend
Two things greater
than all things are,
The first is Love,
and the second War.
KIPLING
CONTENTS
Prologue: Ashes of April
Book One: A Vision From Scott
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Book Two: The Downward Road
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Book Three: A Worse Place Than Hell
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Book Four: “Let Us Die to Make Men Free”
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapte
r 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Book Five: The Butcher’s Bill
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Book Six: The Judgments of the Lord
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Afterword
Prologue:
Ashes Of April
THE HOUSE BURNED AN hour before midnight on the last day of April. The wild, distant ringing of the fire bells woke George Hazard. He stumbled through the dark hallway, then upstairs to the mansion tower, and stepped outside onto the narrow balcony. A strong, warm wind blew, strengthening the flames and intensifying their light. Even from this height above the town named Lehigh Station, he recognized the blazing house—the only substantial one remaining in the seedy section near the canal.
He raced down to his dimly lighted bedroom and grabbed clothing with hardly more than a glance. He tried to dress quietly but inevitably woke his wife, Constance. She had fallen asleep reading Scripture—not her own Douay version but one of the Hazard family Bibles, into which she’d slipped her rosary before closing the book and kissing George good night. Since the fall of Fort Sumter and the outbreak of war, Constance had spent more than her usual time with the Bible.
“George, where are you rushing?”
“There’s a fire in town. Don’t you hear the alarms?”
Still sleepy, she rubbed her eyes. “But you don’t chase the pump engines whenever the bell rings.”
“The place belongs to Fenton, one of my best foremen. There’s been trouble in his household lately. The fire may be no accident.” He bent and kissed her warm cheek. “Go to sleep. I’ll be back in bed in an hour.”
He turned off the gas and moved swiftly downstairs and to the stable. He saddled a horse himself; it was far faster than waking a groom, and concern spurred him to haste. This acute involvement puzzled him, because, ever since Orry Main’s visit two weeks ago this very night, George had been submerged in a strange, numb state. He felt at a distance from most life around him and especially from that of the nation, one part of which had seceded and attacked the other. The Union was sundered; troops were mustering. As if that somehow had no bearing on his existence, or any impact on his emotions, George had resorted to self-willed isolation.
On horseback, he raced from the rear of the mansion he’d named Belvedere and down the twisting hillside road toward the fire. The strong wind gusts blew like blasts from one of the furnaces of Hazard Iron; the foreman’s house must have become an inferno. Was the volunteer company on the scene? He prayed so.
The road, high-crowned and bumpy, required tight control of his mount. The route took him by the many buildings of the ironworks, generating smoke and light and noise even at this hour. Hazard’s was running continuously, rolling out rails and plate for the Union war effort just commencing. The company was also about to sign a contract to cast cannon. Just now, however, business was the farthest thing from the mind of the man riding swiftly past the terraces of the better homes, then into the flat streets of the commercial district toward the heat and glare of the fire.
The trouble in Fenton’s house had been known to George for some time. Whenever a worker had a problem, he usually heard about it. He wanted it so. Occasionally discipline was required, but he preferred the remedies of discussion, understanding, and advice, wanted or no.
The previous year, Fenton had taken in his footloose cousin, a muscular, energetic chap twenty years his junior. Temporarily without funds, the young man needed a job. The foreman found him one at Hazard’s, and the newcomer did well enough for a month or two.
Though married, Fenton was childless. His handsome but essentially foolish wife was nearer the cousin’s age than his own. Soon George noticed the foreman losing weight. He heard talk of an atypical listlessness when Fenton was on duty. Finally George received a report of a costly mistake made by the foreman. And a week later, another.
Last week, both to prevent new errors and to help Fenton if he could, George had called him in for a talk. Usually easygoing—responsive in conversation, even with the owner—Fenton now had a cold, tight, tortured look in his eyes and would make only one statement of substance. He was experiencing domestic difficulty. He emphasized the two words several times—domestic difficulty. George expressed sympathy but quietly said the errors had to stop. Fenton promised to ensure it by remedying the difficulty. George asked how. By insisting the cousin move out of his house, the foreman said. Uneasily, George left it there, suspecting the nature of the domestic difficulty.
Now, silhouetted ahead, he saw spectators, and figures dashing to and fro in front of the blaze, and jets of water spurting ineffectually over the already collapsed residence. The red light reflected on the metalwork of the outmoded Philadelphia-style pump engine and on the black coats of the four horses that had pulled pumper and hose wagons to the site; they pawed and snorted like fearsome animals from hell. George thought of hell because the scene suggested nothing else.
As he jumped from the saddle, he heard a man screaming in the dark street to the left of the burned house. George worked quickly through the spectators. “Stay back, damn you,” the volunteers’ chief shouted through his fire horn as George emerged from the crowd. The chief lowered his horn and spoke an apologetic “Oh, Mr. Hazard, sir. Didn’t recognize you.”
The statement really meant he hadn’t recognized the richest man in town, perhaps in the entire valley, until he saw him clearly; everyone knew stocky George Hazard, thirty-six this year. George’s windblown hair already showed the beginnings of the sun-streaking that lightened it in the spring and summer; it showed some permanent gray, too. The ice-colored eyes, common in the Hazard family, reflected the fire without and George’s anxiety within. “What happened here?”
The words brought a stammering summary from the chief while the volunteers, who years ago had named their company the Station Stalwarts and gilded its motto, Officium Pro Periculo, on every piece of equipment, continued to work the front and back pumping brakes. The water was wasted on the demolished house. All that could be done was protect the nearby hovels and shanties from the spreading effect of the wind. So the chief had time to speak to the most important man in town.
He said
it looked like Fenton had discovered his wife in bed with his cousin earlier in the evening. The foreman had taken a large kitchen knife and stabbed his wife and her lover before setting fire to the house. During that time, the mortally wounded cousin managed to turn the knife back on his attacker, stabbing him four times. Tears filled George’s eyes, and he scrubbed at them with hard knuckles. Fenton had been the politest of men; well read, industrious, intelligent, kind to those he supervised.
“That’s him yelling,” said the chief. “But he don’t figure to live long. The other two was dead when we got here. We dragged them out and covered them up. They’re lying over there if you want to look.”
Somehow, George was compelled. He walked toward the two bodies, foul-smelling beneath a square of canvas in the middle of the street. The screaming went on. The wind fanned the fire, gave it a whooshing voice, and swirled embers and glowing debris upward. The volunteers continued to pump furiously, two rows of men on each brake, one row on the ground, the other on the platform running the width of the engine. The riveted leather hoses, brought in two coffinlike wagons, ran clear across the abandoned canal to the river for water. The matched black horses, trained for this work, continued to behave strangely, pawing, and throwing their heads, and flashing their red-reflecting flanks.
George stopped a foot short of the canvas and lifted it. He had lately been investigating the cost of a modern Latta steam pumper for the town, hence knew something of fires and their effects. That didn’t prepare him for the sight of the dead lovers.
Of the two, the wife was charred worse, her blackened skin split and rolled back upon itself in many places. The cousin’s burned-away clothing revealed hundreds of blisters weeping a shiny yellow fluid that mirrored light. The faces, necks, protruding tongues of both victims had swollen in the final agonies of wanting air and drawing only scorching fumes into the lungs. Ultimately, the throats had swollen, too, though in the wife’s case it was hard to tell whether flames or asphyxiation had killed her. With the cousin there was less doubt; his eyes bulged, big as new apples.