North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  “I’m a man with a big club over his head. Goddamn it, Jupe, it’s bribery.”

  The lawyer shrugged. “I prefer to call it accommodation. Or standard practice. The Philadelphia and Pittsburgh banks entered into similar arrangements to get their charters. Whether you want to do it is up to you, of course. But we’ve bought the building, and if you say no, we’ll have to put it up for sale. If you do say no, it won’t bother me. I’ll be shed of huge amounts of paperwork.”

  “And huge fees.”

  Smith looked aggrieved.

  George chewed his cigar. “I still say it’s bribery.” More chewing. “Tell them yes.”

  George proved a poor prophet of military affairs. McClellan stayed on, evidently for want of a competent replacement. The only West Point officers who seemed capable of winning were those who had gone south. This renewed the outcries against the Academy. In mid-July, George received a letter asking him to serve on West Point’s Board of Visitors as a replacement for a member suddenly deceased. The mounting attacks inclined him to accept, so he requested an interview with Stanton. The secretary gave him permission to serve so long as it didn’t interfere with his assigned duties.

  George was mired in work, but he assured Stanton there would be no problem. From the brief conversation, he gained not the slightest hint as to the secretary’s opinion about the Academy.

  Mr. Stanton, he concluded, was by design a circular fortress—safe from attack from any direction.

  Though the Board of Visitors appointment meant more pressure, George was thankful to have it. His job had grown so frustrating he hated to open his eyes in the morning, because that meant donning his uniform and going to the Winder Building. His work with artillery contracts was constantly interrupted by interminable meetings. Should the department recommend adoption of rifle shells—Minié balls with time fuses that exploded after firing? Should the department test shells containing liquid chlorine, which would turn to a heavy, deadly gas when released? George also continued to interview inventors of patently insane weapons. One day he wasted three hours examining drawings of a two-barrel fieldpiece designed to fire a pair of cannonballs linked by a chain. The chain was supposed to decapitate several soldiers when the balls landed.

  “We court the lunatics, and the sane inventors stay away,” he protested to Constance. “They can get a better hearing from a bootblack than they can from us.”

  “You’re exaggerating again.”

  “Think so? Read this.” Into her hands he thrust the latest Scientific American whose editorializing had sent Ripley into a rage:

  We fear that the skill of our mechanics, the self-sacrifice of our people, and the devoted heroism of our troops in their efforts to save the country will all be rendered futile by the utter incompetency which controls the war and navy departments of the government.

  “They deem us fools, and they’re right,” he growled when she finished. She had nothing to say. He went off to see the children in a grumpy, abrasive mood that was becoming a constant in their lives.

  Only one thing helped him survive in the Winder Building. It was not possible for Ripley to interfere with everything, and he now seemed inclined to refrain from meddling with the artillery program. The turnabout had come in April when Parrott rifles had proven their worth by quickly reducing Savannah’s Fort Pulaski to ruins. Still, George felt like a man hanging from a ledge. How much longer his hands would hold out he didn’t know.

  Interwoven with his work and the war were the no less important events of day-to-day family life, some amusing, some troublesome, many just mundane and tiring. Constance by some miracle had found a small, snug house for rent in Georgetown, near the college. By mid-July they were into the upheaval of moving. For a week George roared around the place unable to locate his underdrawers, his cigars, or any other necessities of life.

  One morning Patricia found the bedclothes reddened, and though her mother had prepared her with information about young womanhood, she wept for an hour.

  William was growing rapidly, and his attitude toward girls was changing from loathing to interest tinctured with suspicion. Early in the war he had often said he couldn’t wait to grow up, enlist, and have a grand time fighting for the Union. The long day and longer night after Bull Run had put an end to those declarations.

  No letters came from Billy—another cause for concern. Often at night, when George had worried all he could about Old Ripley and the army, he would lie awake fretting about his younger brother or his old friend Orry.

  Except for Brett, living in Lehigh Station, ties between the Hazards and the Mains were broken. Where was Orry? Where was Charles? A letter smuggler might be hard put to find either of them, though George supposed it could be done if absolutely necessary. What mattered was not that they exchanged letters but that they all came through this dark passage unhurt.

  He never worried about Stanley. His older brother was dressing well and living lavishly. Stanley and Isabel were intimate with Washington’s most powerful men and seen at the city’s most prestigious social gatherings. George couldn’t understand how it could happen to someone as incompetent as Stanley.

  “There are seasons, George,” Constance said by way of answer. “Cycles for all things—the Bible says that. Stanley stood in your shadow for a long time.”

  “And now I’m to be hidden in his?”

  “No, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “It’s the truth. It makes me mad.”

  “I feel a bit jealous myself, if you must know. On the other hand, I’m sure Isabel is the chief architect of their success, and I’d hang myself before I’d change places with her.”

  George puffed his cigar. “You know, I can’t forget that I hit Stanley after the train wreck. Maybe this is justice. Maybe it’s my punishment.”

  “Did you notice how friendly the secretary was?” Stanley exclaimed one Saturday night in July. Their carriage was taking them home from a Shakespearean performance at Leonard Graver’s new theater on the site of the old National on E Street. “Did you notice that, Isabel?”

  “Why shouldn’t Stanton be cordial? You’re one of his best employees. He knows he can trust you.”

  Stanley preened. Could it be true? The evidence certainly pointed that way. He was on good terms with the dogmatic but unquestionably patriotic secretary, at the same time maintaining friendly relations with Wade, to whom he occasionally passed bits of information about confidential War Department matters. Lashbrook’s was prospering beyond all expectations, and Stanley was now anticipating a trip to New Orleans, there to establish additional trading contracts of a sensitive but potentially lucrative nature. He was making the world not merely his oyster but a whole plate of them. Strange how a savage war could change a man’s life so greatly.

  There were only a few aspects of Stanley’s role of fierce Republican that he didn’t like. He mentioned one to Isabel when they got to bed that night.

  “The Confiscation Act’s to be signed this week. The slaves will be freed in captured territory, and use of colored troops approved. But there’s more coming. Stanton told me so during the second intermission, while you were in the toilet.”

  “Don’t utter that word in my presence. Tell me what you learned from Stanton.”

  “The President’s drafting an executive order.” Stanley paused to achieve an effect. “He wants to free all the slaves.”

  “My God. Are you sure?”

  “Well, all of them in the Confederacy at least. I don’t believe he’ll touch slavery in Kentucky or the other border states.”

  “Ah. I didn’t think he was that much of an idealist. It won’t be a humanitarian measure, then, but a punitive one.” She continued, grudgingly, “Lincoln has all the charm of a pig, but I’ll give him this: he’s a shrewd politician.”

  “How can you say that, Isabel? Do you want mobs of freed niggers swarming into the North? Think of the unrest. Think of the jobs decent white men will lose. The whole idea’s scandalous.”<
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  “You’d better keep that opinion private if you want to keep the friendship of Stanton and Ben Wade.”

  “But—”

  “Stop, Stanley. When you dine at the devil’s house, you can’t choose the menu. Play your part. The loyal Republican.”

  He did, although it galled him to hear all the talk of emancipation suddenly flying through the offices and corridors, the parlors and saloon bars of official and unofficial Washington. Lincoln’s radical proposal offended many whites who got wind of it, and it was sure to cause social upheaval if it were implemented. Stanley obeyed his wife, however, and kept his views to himself.

  Except on one subject. He invited his brother to dine at Willard’s, so he could gloat.

  “I wouldn’t devote much time to that Board of Visitors, George. If Ben Wade and some others have their way, this time next year West Point will be nothing but abandoned buildings and memories.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “There will be no more appropriations to operate that place. It’s provided a free education to traitors, but what has it given our side? One general reportedly drunk as a lord at Shiloh, another so egotistical and inept he couldn’t win against an army half the size of his. I could also mention—a host of—lesser—”

  The sentence became mumbling; George had laid his fork next to the slab of venison and was glaring.

  “You said this was a social occasion. No politics. I should have known better than to believe you.”

  He walked out, leaving Stanley with the bill.

  Stanley didn’t mind. He felt expansive that day; affluent—even handsome. He had just achieved a nice little triumph. His strutting brother’s precious institution was doomed, and there was not one damn thing he could do about it.

  She was black and beautiful. Coppered oak, over two hundred feet long from bowsprit to stern. A single low stack amidships enhanced her rakish appearance. The red of her shield figurehead and the gilt of her stern carvings were her only vivid colors.

  Cooper knew her intimately and loved her without reservation. She was a steam barkentine, a thousand and fifty tons, with two oscillating engines of three hundred and fifty horsepower driving a single propeller that could be raised from the water to reduce drag. Her three masts could be donkey-rigged with plenty of canvas. She lay in the Mersey this twenty-ninth day of July with everything from bedding to galley stores in place and her full crew aboard.

  A stream of carriages discharged passengers on the cobblestones of the pier. Bulloch greeted each local businessman or officeholder by name; all had been invited—hastily—for an afternoon’s excursion on Number 209.

  Captain Butcher, lately second officer on the Royal Mail vessel Arabia, had steam up and was waiting for the last few guests. They might or might not arrive before the order that Bulloch’s spies had reported to be on the way from Whitehall: the ship was to be prevented from sailing because her ultimate mission violated British law.

  Bulloch maintained a fine front, smiling and chatting as he saw guests to the gangway and directed them to refreshments on trestle tables beneath a striped awning. Cooper paced the pier, snapping his watch open every couple of minutes. If they didn’t get away—if Charles Francis Adams succeeded—this beautiful, invaluable commerce raider would be lost to the Confederacy.

  A clerk hovering close to Bulloch showed him a list. “All but these two gentlemen are present, sir.”

  “We shall go without them.”

  Up the gangway he went, past the seamen recruited from Cunard and other lines to sail Number 209 on the first leg of her voyage. Suddenly, beyond some dockworkers, Cooper saw a hack careen through Canning Street, heading for the ship. From the foot of the gangway, he called, “Our last guests may be here, James.”

  Quickly, Bulloch stepped to the helm and spoke to young Captain Batcher, whose light whiskers danced in the Mersey breeze. The hack rattled along the pier, slowing. Before it came to a stop, a man jumped out. Cooper’s stomach wrenched as he recognized Maguire. Preceded by the smell of leeks, Marcellus Dorking also appeared.

  The sight of the man enraged Cooper. Since that afternoon in the Pig and Whistle, he had been followed intermittently by several different spies, all of whom undoubtedly worked for Tom Dudley. Of Dorking, however, he had seen no sign. The threat against Cooper’s family had been nothing but air; a coward’s way of inspiring fear. That lowered Dorking even further in Cooper’s estimation.

  Maguire and Dorking bolted toward Cooper, who barred the gangway. Dorking’s right hand dipped into the pocket of his garish plaid coat. “Little pleasure cruise, sir?” he asked with his familiar smarmy smile.

  “That’s right. As you can see, we have local dignitaries on board.”

  “Be that as it may, we must request that you delay your departure. A train should be arriving at Lime Street right about now bearing a gentleman who wishes to speak with the captain about certain improprieties that—”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” Cooper interrupted. He started up the gangway.

  “Just a minute.” Dorking grabbed Cooper’s shoulder and roughly turned him around. A couple of seamen called warnings to Butcher. The invited guests murmured and frowned.

  Bulloch started down to help Cooper, too late. Marcellus Dorking produced a small silver pistol and shoved it into Cooper’s stomach, indenting his waistcoat half an inch.

  “Stand aside while we speak to the master of this vessel.”

  Cooper had never been so scared or so directly confronted with the threat of violent death. Yet that was somehow less important than the need to get Number 209 to her destination. Dorking realized his pistol was in view and tried to hide it from those on deck. As the muzzle dipped down, Cooper stamped on Dorking’s shoe.

  “Bleeding Christ,” Dorking cried, staggering. Maguire tried to strike Cooper, who pushed him, then gave Dorking a knee in the crotch. Consul Dudley’s agents spilled onto the cobbles like ill-trained acrobats.

  Energized by his success in the face of danger, Cooper loped up the gangway, shouting at Dorking and Maguire, “Invited guests only on this cruise, gentlemen.” He passed seamen at the rail. “Take up the gangway.”

  Captain Butcher bellowed orders. The dockworkers who had watched the fray with puzzled amusement cast off the lines on the double. There was consternation among the guests.

  Brown water began to show between the hull and the pier. Maguire regained his feet, then Dorking, who went for the pistol again. “My word,” said a guest behind Cooper. There were other, less polite oaths.

  Dorking raised the pistol, a flicker of silver in the summer sunshine. Maguire dragged his arm down. Dorking glared at Cooper, who gripped the rail and yelled, “It never pays to brag, Mr. Dorking. It never pays to say you’ll do something when you can’t. I hope you didn’t tell Dudley you’d stop us.”

  “Keep quiet,” Bulloch said behind him. Red, Cooper turned, ready to apologize. Only he could see Bulloch’s smile or hear him whisper, “Sharp work.” Swiftly, he returned to the guests, who swarmed around him asking questions.

  The figures of Maguire and Dorking receded. Cooper relaxed at the rail, surprised at the quickness of his reactions. He was pleased with himself.

  The river shone like gold; the air was salty and not too hot; a perfect afternoon. Bulloch promised to answer all questions shortly but first urged the guests to help themselves to French champagne and the delicacies he had ordered to support the illusion of an innocent outing. When a measure of calm returned, he politely asked for attention and stepped into the sunshine just beyond the awning shadow. From there he addressed the passengers.

  “We trust you will all enjoy your cruise on the vessel variously known in Liverpool and Birkenhead as Enrica or Laird’s 209. She will have her real name soon. We want you to be perfectly comfortable this afternoon. Eat and drink as much as you like and try not to let that unpleasantness on the pier bother you. I must be honest and confess that your return journey will be a
board a tug awaiting us down the coast at Anglesey.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dammit, Bulloch, what subterfuge are you—?”

  “Bloody trick, that’s what it—”

  “A regrettable necessity, gentlemen,” Bulloch said, his deep Georgian voice overriding the protests. “On Sunday we were warned that if this ship remained in the Mersey another forty-eight hours, she’d be impounded. Lost to our cause. You’ll have no trouble with the authorities if you simply tell the truth. You were invited on a cruise, which you are now taking. The only difference is, your cruise ship won’t be the vessel taking you back to Liverpool. For that, I accept all blame.”

  “Are the rumors true, then? Was this vessel built illegally?”

  “She was built in scrupulous conformity with British law, sir.”

  “That’s no answer,” someone else said. “Where’s she bound?”

  “Up the Irish Channel and then to a port I am not at liberty to name. Ultimately, she will sail in American waters with a different crew.”

  Cooper felt a strange thrill up his spine—unexpected as his own clumsy bravery at dockside. What a remarkable change had come over him, scarcely noticed, since those days when he had debated the folly of secession and war with anyone who would listen. He was proud of this ship and proud of his part in getting her to sea. He was proud of her name, which Bulloch had confided to him; it was to be Alabama. He was proud to stand on her spanking new deck as she headed down the glittering Mersey to the destination Bulloch quietly announced to the stunned guests.

  “She is going to war.”

  While the Confederate ship escaped to the Isle of Anglesey, George was en route to Massachusetts, having first stopped at Lehigh Station for a day and a half. He had conferred with Jupe Smith, who informed him that the legislature now looked on the bank charter application with great favor—“What a surprise,” George muttered—and spent seven hours with Wotherspoon inspecting the books, the manufacturing areas, and samples of Hazard’s current output. Before he left, he saw the Hungarian couple and their black charges—fifteen of them now. To relieve her loneliness, Brett said, she sometimes helped Mr. and Mrs. Czorna care for the children. It was the only time during the visit that George saw a sign of animation in his sister-in-law.