North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  Awkward silence. Stoddard cleared his throat. “Sir, it will be dark soon.”

  “Dark. Yes. The hour for dreams—best I get on with shooting.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. President—” George feared that he sounded strange; the bad news had dried his mouth.

  “Certainly, Major Hazard. Happy to see you down here. I admire men who like to learn all they can. Try to do that myself.”

  Lugging the Austrian rifle, George retreated into the gathering night. He mounted his horse and rode up past the brightly lit penitentiary to the sounds of firing from the pier. He felt as if someone had hit him over the head. Cameron and Company was in worse trouble than he had imagined. And he worked for Cameron and Company.

  It had pleased Stanley to reject the proposal prepared by his brother. Stanley had a few clear memories of the long, horrible walk back from Manassas—he had none of crying at the roadside; it was Isabel who frequently reminded him of it—but those that remained included one of George pushing and bullying him as if he were some plantation nigger. If he could slight George or make his job more difficult, he now had one more reason for doing so.

  Stanley was worried about his position as Cameron’s creature. Saloon gossip said the boss’s star was already falling. Yet nothing in the department appeared to change. The secretary had spent several days away from his desk, mourning his brother, but after that, it was business—and confusion—as usual.

  Important congressmen had begun to inquire orally, by letter, and through press pronouncements about the purchasing methods of the War Department. Lincoln’s dispatch of his own man to Europe on a gun-buying trip showed no great faith in them, to say the least. Complaints about shortages of clothing, small arms, and equipment continued to pour in from the camps of instruction. It was stated with increasing openness that Cameron was guilty of mismanagement and that the army, which little McClellan would attempt to whip into fighting trim, had not half of what it needed.

  Except for bootees, Stanley could note with self-congratulation. Pennyford was producing in quantity, on schedule. Lashbrook’s profit figures, projected out to year-end, staggered Stanley and delighted Isabel, who claimed to have expected the bonanza.

  Regrettably, Stanley’s personal success couldn’t help him weather the departmental crisis. The written and oral demands for information now contained barbs in them. Scandalous shortages. Reported irregularities. If an impropriety was actually alleged, Cameron didn’t deny it. He didn’t even acknowledge it. One day Stanley overheard two clerks discussing this technique.

  “Another sharp letter came in this morning. Treasury this time. Got to admire the way the boss handles them. He stands silent as a stone wall—same as that crazy Jackson at Bull Run.”

  “I thought the battle was fought at Manassas,” said the second clerk.

  “According to the rebs. According to us, it’s Bull Run.”

  The other groaned. “If they start naming battles for places and we start naming them for streams, how the devil will schoolboys figure it out fifty years from now?”

  “Who cares? I’m worried about today. Even the boss can’t put up a stone wall forever. My advice is, bank your salary and—” He noticed Stanley lingering over a bound volume of contracts. He nudged his companion and both moved away.

  The clerks epitomized the desperation beginning to infect the department. Cameron’s precarious position was no longer a secret known only to a few. He was in trouble and, by extension, so were his cronies. When Stanley returned to his desk, the thought made it impossible for him to concentrate.

  He needed to put distance between himself and his old mentor. How? No answer came to mind. He must discuss the problem with Isabel. He could count on her to know what to do.

  That evening, however, she wasn’t in a mood to discuss it. He found her seething over a newspaper.

  “What’s upset you, my dear?”

  “Our sweet conniving sister-in-law. She’s ingratiating herself with the very people we should be cultivating.”

  “Stevens and that lot?” Isabel responded with a fierce nod. “What’s Constance done?”

  “Started her abolition work again. She and Kate Chase are to be hostesses at a reception for Martin Delany.” The name meant nothing—further cause for wifely fury. “Oh, don’t be so thick, Stanley. Delany’s the nigger doctor who wrote the novel everyone twittered over a couple of years ago. Blake; that was the title. He runs around in African robes, giving lectures.”

  Stanley remembered then. Before the war, Delany had promoted the idea of a new African state to which American blacks could, and in his opinion should, emigrate. Delany’s scheme called for the blacks to raise cotton in Africa and bankrupt the South through competitive free enterprise.

  Stanley picked up the paper, found the announcement of the reception, and read the partial list of guests. His moist dark eyes reflected the bright gas mantles as he said carefully, “I know you can’t abide the colored and those who champion them. But you’re right, we need to speed up our own—cultivation, as you call it, of the important pro-abolition people attending that party. Simon is about to go down. If we aren’t careful, he’ll take us with him. He’ll ruin our reputations and dam up the river of money that’s flowing into Lashbrook’s.” There was a hint of uncharacteristic strength in his voice as he finished. “We must do something and do it soon.”

  35

  THE HOT HAZE OF August settled on the Alexandria line. Encamped north of Centreville, the legion awaited replacements and the Enfields the colonel had paid for with personal funds. The rifles were to come from Britain on a blockade runner.

  The legion reorganized to compensate for its losses at Manassas. Calbraith Butler, promoted to major, took command of the four troops of cavalry. Charles reacted to the change with initial resentment, which he was sensible enough to keep to himself. When he thought about it, the choice wasn’t so surprising. Butler was a gentleman volunteer, without the taint of professionalism Charles carried. Being married to the governor’s daughter didn’t hurt, either.

  Also, Charles knew his own cause hadn’t been helped by his insistence on discipline and his occasional anger with offenders. He had a less violent temper than many an Academy graduate—a Yankee hothead named Phil Sheridan came to mind—but he still yelled in the approved West Point style.

  The hell with it. He had enlisted to win a war, not promotions. Butler was a fine horseman and by instinct a good officer; he led men the right way—by example. Charles congratulated his new superior with unfeigned sincerity.

  “Decent of you, Charles,” said the new major. “In terms of experience, you’re more deserving than I.” He smiled. “Tell you what. Since I have all these new responsibilities and am married to boot, you must hie yourself to Richmond and represent me at that ball. Take Pell along if you like.”

  Charles needed no further invitation. He spruced up his uniform and hurried completion of the most important of his current tasks. Sometimes, he thought, the duties were more a father’s than a soldier’s. He finished the work just in time for evening review. At the ceremony, the colonel formally received the regiment’s newest battle flag, sewn by ladies at home. A palmetto wreath and the words Hampton’s Legion decorated the scarlet silk.

  Afterward, Charles made final preparations for travel to Richmond. He was interrupted by a trooper named Nelson Gervais, who had a long letter from a girl back home in Rock Hill. The nineteen-year-old farmer shifted his weight back and forth and rattled the letter paper as he explained.

  “I’ve pressed my suit with Miss Sally Mills for three years, Captain. No luck. Now all of a sudden she says—” rattle went the paper—“she says my joining up and going away made her wake up to how much she cares for me. She says here that she’d entertain a marriage proposal.”

  “Congratulations, Gervais.” Impatient, Charles missed the point of the trooper’s imploring look. “I don’t believe you’d be permitted a furlough anytime soon, but that shouldn�
��t stop you from asking for her hand.”

  “Yes, sir, I want to do that.”

  “You don’t need my consent.”

  “I need your help, sir. Miss Sally Mills writes real well, but—” his face turned red as the new flag—“I can’t.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No, sir.” Long pause. “Can’t read, either.” Rattle. “One of my messmates, he read this for me. Where Sally said she loved me and all—”

  Charles understood, gently tapped the desk. “Leave that, and as soon as I’m back from Richmond, I’ll compose a letter of proposal and we’ll go over it till it meets with your approval.”

  “Thank you, sir! I really thank you. I can’t hardly thank you enough.”

  Private Gervais’s effusions floated in the humid night for some moments after his departure. Charles smiled to himself and blew out the light in his wall tent, feeling remarkably middle-aged.

  The night ride on the cars of the Orange & Alexandria proved exhausting due to unforeseen and unexplained delays en route. Charles dozed on the hard seat, doing his best to ignore Ambrose’s attempts at conversation. His friend was annoyed that they were segregated from Hampton and other senior officers in the car ahead.

  Charles was worn out and dirty when they arrived in Richmond late next morning. Quarters had been arranged with a Mississippi unit, so he had a chance to jump into a zinc tub, then find a pallet and try to catch an hour’s sleep. Excitement made it impossible.

  The Spotswood ballroom glittered with braid and jewels and lights that shone on yards of Confederate bunting. Hundreds packed the room and the adjoining parlors and corridors. Soon after Charles entered, he glimpsed his cousin Ashton on the far side of the dance floor. She and her pale worm of a husband were hovering near President Davis. Charles would avoid coming anywhere near them.

  Young women, many quite beautiful and all vivacious and handsomely gowned, laughed and danced with the officers, who outnumbered them three to one. Charles wasn’t anxious for companionship unless he found the right person. He didn’t see her anywhere. His hopes had been far-fetched, he supposed. Fredericksburg was miles away.

  But there were unexpected diversions. A burly first lieutenant with the beginnings of a great beard left a group around Joe Johnston and hurled himself over to give Charles a bear hug.

  “Bison! I suspected you might be here.”

  “Fitz, you look grand. I heard you were on General Johnston’s staff.”

  Fitzhugh Lee, nephew of Robert E., had been a close friend at West Point and in Texas. “Not so grand as you, Captain.” He loaded the last word with mock deference. Charles laughed.

  “Don’t hand me that. I know who’s superior here. You’re regular army. We’re still just state troops.”

  “Not for long, I’m sure. Oh-oh—there’s another gorgeous phiz you should recognize. And precisely where you’d expect it, too—in the middle of a bevy of admiring females.”

  Charles looked, and his heart leaped at the sight of an old friend who was in theory his colonel’s rival. Jeb Stuart’s russet beard was full and resplendent. Gauntlets were artfully draped over his sash. A yellow rose adorned his buttonhole. His blue eyes flashed as he teased and flattered the ladies pressing close to him.

  The commander of the First Virginia Cavalry had been a first classman when Charles entered the Academy. Stuart had given the callow plebe a haircut—or half of one—that Charles would never forget. Together, he and Fitz worked their way toward Stuart. He spied them and excused himself from the disappointed ladies just as Charles saw a major from the First Virginia request a dance from a full-bosomed blonde wearing pale blue silk. It was Augusta.

  Away from the crowd, Stuart’s boots were visible; there were the gold spurs everyone talked about. “Bison Main! Now the party’s perfect!”

  Charles’s greeting was restrained and correct. “Colonel.”

  “Come, come—you don’t say hello to your old barber that way.”

  “Very well, Beauty. It’s grand to run into you. You and General Beauregard are the heroes of the hour.”

  “I do hear those Yankees think we all ride black stallions that squirt fire and brimstone from their nostrils. Good! We’ll whip ’em that much sooner if they stay scared. Come along and have a whiskey.”

  The three walked to the refreshment bar, where black men deferentially filled the orders. Stuart couldn’t help crowing a little.

  “Hear you boys missed the muss the other day. Luck of the game. How do you find your commander?” He indicated Hampton, some distance away. The colonel was engaged in conversation with one man in civilian clothes; there were no admirers.

  “None better.”

  “Never make a cavalryman. Too old.”

  “He’s a superb horseman, Beauty. Strong as any of us.”

  Stuart’s flashing smile relieved the brief tension. Whiskey helped, too. The three were soon chatting about Fitz’s uncle, who had been superintendent at West Point for a time; Lee was scrapping with the Federals in the western reaches of the state.

  Charles’s glance kept returning to Augusta. She was dancing a gallopade with the same major, who in Charles’s jealous imagination had become an exemplar of boring pomposity.

  Fitz startled him by saying: “Handsome little morsel.”

  “Know her?”

  “Certainly. She’s a rich woman—modestly rich, anyway, thanks to her late husband. Her mother’s people, the Duncans, are one of the oldest families on the Rappahannock. One of the finest, too.”

  “Except for her damned traitorous uncle,” Stuart said. “He sold out to the Africanizers, just like my father-in-law.”

  “But you named your son in honor of old Cooke,” Fitz said.

  “Flora’s changed the boy’s name at my insistence. He’s no longer Philip; he’s James—now and forever more.” There was ice in Stuart’s smile, and the light of the true believer in his eyes. It bothered Charles.

  Stuart had other admirers waiting. His departure, though friendly, left Charles with the feeling that rivalries of rank and state now divided them, and they both recognized it. The result was a kind of melancholy, enhanced when the orchestra started a new piece and the major once more claimed a dance from Augusta.

  “If she’s the one you want, go after her,” Fitz whispered.

  “He outranks me.”

  “No self-respecting Southerner would consider that an obstacle. Besides”—Fitz’s voice went lower still—“I know that man. He’s a fool.” He thumped Charles on the shoulder. “Go on, Bison, or the night’ll be over and you’ll have nothing to show for it.”

  Wondering why he felt anxious and hesitant, Charles maneuvered his way around the edge of the floor where couples whirled and stirred the air. He caught Augusta watching him—with pleasure and relief, unless he was imagining things. He quickly planned his strategy, waited till the music ended, then went charging to her side.

  “Cousin Augusta! Major, do excuse the interruption—I had no idea I’d see my relative here tonight.”

  “Your relative?” the First Virginia officer repeated in a voice that seemed to echo from a barrel. He frowned at his partner. “You said nothing about relatives in the Palmetto State, Mrs. Barclay.”

  “Didn’t I? The Duncans have a host of them. And I haven’t set eyes on dear Charles for two—it must be three years now. Major Beesley—Captain Main. You will excuse us, Major?” She smiled, taking Charles’s arm and turning him away from the scowling Virginian.

  “Beastly, did you say?” he whispered. The whiskey was bubbling in him; he felt hot and reacted to the touch of her breast against his sleeve.

  “That should be his name. Feathers for brains and feet of lead. I thought I was doomed for the rest of the night.”

  “Feathers and lead—that isn’t Mr. Pope, is it?”

  “No, but you certainly have a good memory.”

  “Good enough so I remember not to call you Gus.”

  She whacked his hand lightly with
her fan. “Be careful or I’ll go back to Beastly.”

  “I’ll never allow that.” He glanced over his shoulder. “He’s hovering. Let’s get some food.”

  Charles handed Augusta a cup of punch, then started to fill two small plates. Several girls crowded in beside him. With stagey gestures and exaggerated diction, one was loudly reciting a satiric piece Charles had heard in camp. The Richmond Examiner had originally printed the so-called fable of the orang-outang named Old Abe:

  “The orang-outang was chosen king, and this election created a great disturbance and revolution in the Southern states, for the beasts in that part of the country had imported from Africa a large number of black monkeys and had made slaves of them. And Old Abe the orang-outang had declared that this was an indignity offered to his family—”

  Augusta said, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” an instant before she appeared to stumble. She dumped punch all over the speaker’s beige silk skirt.

  The performer and her friends squealed and fumed. Augusta didn’t show her wrath till she had pulled Charles away. “Witless little fools. I swear, I love the South, but I surely don’t love all Southerners. She’d never utter such remarks in my home. I’d take a horsewhip to her. My nigras are fine men.”

  Charles carried the plates to a small balcony overlooking the busy street. Augusta sighed. “I really don’t belong at this party. The trip’s too long, and most of the company intolerable.” She took a small toast wedge from the plate; the caviar glistened. “Most,” she said again, gazing up at him; his height made it necessary.

  “Why did you come, then?”

  “They said they needed a good supply of women. I decided—” she paused—“it was my patriotic duty to attend. One of my freedmen made the trip with me. Not that I couldn’t have driven alone—Why are you smiling?”

  “Because you’re so damned—uh, blasted—”