North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  “I still don’t like it, but I love West Point, though I didn’t know it till long after I graduated.”

  She kissed his brow. “Come to bed as soon as you can.”

  He nodded absently. He never saw her leave.

  He inked his pen and resumed work on the article he had agreed to write for the New York Times, one of the Academy’s staunch defenders. The piece was a rebuttal of a favorite argument of Senator Wade, namely, that West Point should be abolished because two hundred out of eight hundred and twenty regular officers in the army in 1861 had resigned to join the Confederacy.

  If that is sufficient reason to dismantle worthy institutions, George wrote under the gaslight, we must perforce carry it into other spheres and, recollecting the divers senators and representatives who similarly resigned—among them Mr. Jefferson Davis, whom Senator Wade characterizes as “the arch-rebel, the arch-fiend of this rebellion”—dismantle our national legislative bodies, for they, too, have bred traitors. In this context, Senator Wade’s argument can be seen for what it is—specious and demagogic.

  He would make enemies with those last three words. He didn’t give a damn. The battle had been joined, and a powerful cabal meant to bury the Academy permanently this year. Led by Wade, the cabal included Lyman Trumbull of Illinois and James Lane of Kansas. Senator Lane was so confident, he was boasting of West Point’s demise all over Washington.

  Sipping cold cocoa, George wrote on, shivering as the house cooled, yawning against fatigue, firing verbal cannonades in the small war whose outcome he deemed almost as vital to the nation as that of the larger one. He wrote on into the new morning of the new year, until he fell asleep on top of his manuscript around five, a strand of his hair lying across the nib of his discarded pen and getting inky.

  “Yes, I’m happy to say she’ll be joining me soon,” Orry told the President. In his right hand he held a punch cup, but he had declined a plate. Dexterous as he had become, he still could not eat and drink at the same time. “It’s entirely possible that she’s on her way right now.”

  The President’s appearance disturbed Orry. He was paler than ever, haggard, with the tight, slightly hunched posture of a man in pain. Much more than neuralgia bedeviled Jefferson Davis these days. His cotton embargo was a failure despite a shortage in British mills. Diplomatic recognition in Europe was no longer even a remote hope. Critics sniped at him for continuing to support the unpopular Bragg in the West and for causing shortages at home. In Richmond, coffee had been almost completely replaced by vile concoctions of okra or sweet potatoes or watermelon seeds sweetened with sorghum. Messages were starting to appear, slashed in paint on city walls: STOP THE WAR. UNION AGAIN!

  This New Year’s afternoon, officers, men in civilian clothes, and many women packed the official residence on Clay Street in the distinguished old Court End neighborhood. Davis strove to fix his entire attention on each guest, if only briefly. Despite his tribulations, his smile and manner were full of warmth:

  “Good news indeed, Colonel. You hoped to have her in Richmond long before this, I recall.”

  “She was to join me early last year, but the plantation was struck with a series of misfortunes.” He mentioned his mother’s seizure but not the increasing problem of runaways. Davis inquired about Clarissa. Orry said she had regained most of her physical faculties.

  Then Davis asked: “How are you getting on with Mr. Seddon?”

  “Fine, sir. I’m aware of his outstanding reputation as a lawyer here in Richmond.”

  That was all Orry would say. James Seddon of Goochland County had replaced General Gustavus Smith as Secretary of War. Smith had served a total of four days after Randolph resigned in November to accept a commission. Orry disliked the gaunt Seddon’s somber disposition and strong secessionist views. Seddon and his wife were here somewhere. He changed the subject.

  “Permit me a question in another area, Mr. President. The enemy is arming black troops. Do you feel we might benefit by taking the same course?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, possibly.”

  Davis’s mouth straightened to a tight line: “The idea is pernicious, Colonel. As Mr. Cobb of Georgia observed, if nigras will make good soldiers, our entire theory of slavery is wrong. Excuse me.”

  And off he went to another guest. Orry felt irritated with Davis; it was a harmful weakness, that inability to entertain opinions different from his own.

  He sipped the excessively sweet punch, alone in the large crowd in the central drawing room of the mansion people called the White House because of its exterior layer of plaster on brick. It was a splendid residence, bought by the city and presented to Mr. and Mrs. Davis as a gift. There was a drawing room on the west side and a dining room on the east. There, from high windows behind the refreshment tables, Orry had looked out across Shockoe Valley to Church Hill and winter skies dark as the slate roof of the house.

  Behind him, some guests discussed a rumored plot to establish yet a third country on the continent, this new one to be combination of states in the Northwest and upper South. The speakers all sounded agitated, even slightly hysterical. The reception was beginning to depress him. He edged toward the door. Suddenly he heard a voice he recognized—Varina Davis’s.

  “—and henceforward, my dear, I reserve the right of not returning social calls. That is my Fort Sumter—and to the devil with the objections of that pipsqueak editor Pollard.”

  Orry didn’t turn to look at the First Lady, but he heard the strain within her sarcasm. Strain infected this crowd and Richmond like a pestilence.

  He, too, had fallen victim. The cause was more than loneliness and longing for Madeline exacerbated by the months of delay. He hated his work in the War Department—the constant battle to curb Winder’s excesses in the prisons he supervised and to check the reckless arrest of anyone the general deemed an enemy of the state. Currently, Winder was trying to sniff out members of a highly secret peace society, the Order of the Heroes of America.

  A report from a reliable source had informed Orry of Israel Quincy and two other plug-uglies jailing and beating three suspected members. Orry’s letter of protest had gone unanswered. A personal visit to Winder’s office led to nothing but another nasty exchange with Quincy. The suspects had been released from Castle Thunder solely because Winder decided they knew nothing about the peace society.

  Orry thought of Dick Ewell, West Point class of ’40, who had lost a leg at Brawner’s Farm last August but still led troops in the field. At Fair Oaks in the spring, Oliver Howard, ’54, had lost an arm, but the Union high command didn’t shunt him to a desk. Perhaps it was time he asked for a transfer to the war’s cutting edge.

  He worked his way slowly to the entrance hall, where he discovered Judah Benjamin with three admiring women. The Secretary of State hailed him cheerfully, as if the recent widely known unpleasantness had never happened. Benjamin had been nabbed when Winder’s detectives swarmed into a Main Street gambling establishment. The raid, meant to net deserters, yielded only some chagrined civilians, including a cabinet member.

  “How are you, Orry?” Benjamin asked, shaking his hand.

  “I’ll be better once Madeline’s here. She’s on the way at last.”

  “Capital. We must have dinner as soon as she arrives.”

  “Yes, certainly,” Orry muttered, nodding and passing on. A realization had jolted him. After Madeline had struggled for over a year to reach Richmond, it would be damned unfair of him to request a transfer the moment she arrived. She would understand, but it would be unfair. Maybe he would stick it out a few more months. He mustn’t blame anyone but himself for failures in dealing with the provost’s men. He would try harder.

  Passing by the foot of the great staircase, he stiffened at the sight of three people entering the mansion: his sister, beautifully dressed and pink-faced from the cold; Huntoon; and a third man, in the baggy trousers, fine sack coat, and round, flat-crowned hat that identified so many of his breed.


  “Good afternoon, Ashton—James,” Orry said as the stranger took off his hat. He hadn’t seen either one of them in months.

  Huntoon mumbled while looking elsewhere. With a wintry smile, Ashton said, “How delightful to see you,” and rushed on to Benjamin. They didn’t bother to present the handsome, sleepy-eyed chap with them, but Orry didn’t care. To judge by his clothing, the man was one of those who infested the Confederacy like parasites: a speculator. Ashton and her husband were keeping peculiar company.

  He jammed his hat on his head and left the White House in a foul mood.

  65

  AT LAST, MADELINE’S HEART sang, at last—the miracle day. For more than a year, it had seemed a day that would never arrive.

  Now, on the same New Year’s afternoon that found her husband at the Richmond White House, she closed the last ledger, locked the last trunk, checked the strip of green tickets a tenth time, and took her final tour of the house and grounds. She knew the rail trip to Richmond would be long, dirty, and uncomfortable. She didn’t care. She would have detoured through the nether regions with Satan as her seatmate if only it would bring her to Orry.

  Her tour done, she knocked at Clarissa’s door. The spacious, well-furnished room inevitably inspired sadness within Madeline. Today was no different. Clarissa sat at the tilt-top table beside the window, the table at which she had once designed her intricate family trees, one version after another. The mild sunshine fell on a block of paper that bore a charcoal drawing of a cardinal, sketchy and barely recognizable, like child’s work.

  “Good afternoon.” Clarissa smiled politely but failed to recognize her daughter-in-law. Small signs of the seizure remained: a slight droop at the outer corner of her right eye, a certain slowness of speech and occasional thickness of a word. Otherwise she was recovered, though she seldom used her right hand. It lay in her lap, motionless as the bird on paper.

  “Clarissa, I am leaving for Richmond shortly. I’ll see your son there.”

  “My son. Oh, yes. How nice.” Her eyes, sun-washed, were blank.

  “The house people and Mr. Meek will look after your needs, but I wanted to tell you I was going.”

  “That’s kind of you. I have enjoyed your visit.”

  Tearful all at once, seeing in the older woman her own mortality, her own probable decay into old age, Madeline flung her arms around Clarissa and hugged her. The precipitous act surprised and alarmed Orry’s mother; her white brows shot up, the left one a little higher than the right.

  The melancholy light of January, the odors of musty clothes pervading the room—the awareness that a whole year of her life with Orry had slipped away—brought the tears more strongly. I am behaving like an idiot at the very moment I should be happiest, Madeline thought as she hid her face from the smiling, quiet woman. She rushed out.

  Downstairs, she spoke briefly with Jane, whom she had put in charge of the house people last summer, agreeing to pay her wages. Then she proceeded down the winding walk toward the small building that by turns had been Tillet’s, Orry’s, and hers. It was now occupied by the overseer.

  Sun shafts pierced down through the Spanish moss, lighting the base of a tree where a slave lounged, snapping a piece of bark into small pieces. He gave her an insolent stare. She stopped on the walk.

  “Have you nothing to do, Cuffey?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I’ll ask Andy to remedy that.” She swept on. Andy would not be reluctant to discipline Cuffey; the men loathed each other. Cuffey’s presence made Madeline uneasy about leaving.

  Last May, Hunter, the general in charge of Yankee enclaves on the coast, had issued a military order emancipating blacks in South Carolina. By the time Lincoln annulled it, word had spread, and the tide of runaways was already flowing from up-country plantations. Madeline’s letters to Richmond reported each loss at Mont Royal—the total now stood at nineteen—and at Christmastime, Orry had written that he was glad his father hadn’t lived to see the defection. Tillet had believed, perhaps with some justification, that his nigras loved him for caring for them and would never repay that love with flight. In Tillet’s lifetime, only one had betrayed him that way; Orry had often told the story of how it had nearly undone his father mentally.

  Last year, following the proclamation, Cuffey had been one of the first to go. Philemon Meek had already conceived a great dislike of the slave—most of the slaves despised him, too—and had devoted extra effort to pursuit and recapture. Meek, Andy, and three other blacks had found Cuffey unconscious in a marsh, his legs under water. He had a high fever and might have drowned if he had slipped a little farther.

  Meek returned Cuffey to Mont Royal in irons. He grew angry when Madeline refused to sanction additional punishment. Recapture and his sickness during flight were enough, she said.

  It bothered her that Cuffey had not attempted a second escape. He was attracted to Jane, but Jane couldn’t tolerate him, and that was evident. Did Cuffey stay on because he had some labyrinthine plan to harm the plantation after she departed?

  Near the office, she glanced back. Cuffey was gone. She immediately changed direction, found Andy and spoke to him. Ten minutes later she knocked at the office door and walked in. Philemon Meek laid his Bible aside—he studied it for short periods every day—and removed his half glasses. How lucky they had been to find him, Madeline thought. Meek was safely past the upper limit of the second conscription act passed in September and should be able to remain at Mont Royal indefinitely—unless, of course, Jeff Davis got desperate enough to draft grandfathers.

  “Are you ready, Miss Madeline? I’ll call Aristotle to load the luggage.”

  “Thank you, Philemon. I wanted to say one thing before I go. Should any emergency arise, don’t hesitate to telegraph. If that isn’t possible, write. I’ll come home at once.”

  “Hope that won’t be necessary—least not until you’ve had an hour or so with your husband.”

  She laughed. “I hope so, too. The truth is, I’m fairly aching to see him.”

  “Shouldn’t wonder. It’s been a hard year for you, what with tending poor old Mrs. Main. Things should run smoothly if the bluebellies don’t push any closer. I did hear yesterday that some tax collector read Lincoln’s proclamation down near Beaufort. Big crowd of nigras gathered around a tree they’ve already named the Emancipation Oak.”

  She described her encounter with Cuffey. Meek bristled. “Nothing to do, eh? I’ll set that to rights.”

  “No need. Andy will take care of it, at my request.”

  “Bad one, that Cuffey,” Meek declared.

  “Orry says it wasn’t always so. Cuffey and Cousin Charles were very close as youngsters.”

  “Don’t know a thing about that. I sometimes regret we caught him in the marsh. He bears watching.”

  “I know you can handle him. You’ve done a magnificent job, Philemon—with the people and with planting and harvesting the crops. Do write or telegraph if there’s anything you want.”

  He started to speak, held back, then said it. “I’d be pleased if you told Jane she can’t teach any more. Learning’s bad for nigras, particularly in these times.” He cleared his throat. “I strongly disapprove.”

  “I’m aware of that. You also know my position. I made a promise to Jane. And I think Mont Royal’s calmer for having her here, teaching, than it would be if she went north.”

  “One thing sure—if she left, we’d lose Andy.” The overseer peeked from under a scraggly brow. “Still don’t like nigras learning to read. ’Gainst the law, for one thing.”

  “Times are changing, Philemon. The laws must change, too. If we don’t help the people improve themselves, they’ll go straight to the Yankees at Beaufort. I accept full responsibility for Jane’s activity and any consequences.”

  Meek tried one last sally. “If Mr. Orry knew about Jane, he might not—”

  Sharply: “He knows. I wrote him last year.”

  No sense saying the rest. No sense telling him she b
elieved the Confederacy would lose the war, and the people on the plantation would face freedom in the white man’s world without even minimal preparation. That was the strongest reason she wanted Jane here teaching.

  Meek gave up. “I wish you a safe journey. I hear the railroads are in mighty bad shape.”

  “Thank you for your concern.” She overcame a hesitation, ran to him, and hugged him, making him cough and blush. “You take care of yourself.”

  “Surely will. Give my regards to the colonel.”

  Still scarlet, he left to summon Aristotle for the trip to the little railroad flag stop not many miles distant. Through slanting bars of sunshine and shadow, Madeline drove away, waving to some forty slaves gathered in the drive to see her off.

  Standing apart, arms folded over his chest, Cuffey watched, too.

  That night, Jane held class in the sick house.

  Thirty-two black people crowded the whitewashed room lit by short pieces of candle. Andy sat cross-legged in the first row. Cuffey lounged in a corner, arms crossed, eyes seldom leaving Jane’s face. She was uncomfortable with the attention but did her best to ignore it.

  “Try, Ned,” she pleaded with a lanky field hand. She tapped her writing instrument, a lump of charcoal, on her board, a slat from a crate. “Three letters.” She tapped each in turn.

  Ned shook his head. “I don’ know.”

  She stamped her bare foot. “You knew them two days ago.”

  “I forgot! I work hard all day, I get tired. I ain’t smart ’nuf to ’member such things.”

  “Yes, you are, Ned. I know you are, and you’ve got to believe it yourself. Try once more.” She curbed her impatience; this was like pushing stones up a mountain. She tapped the board. “Three letters: N, E, D. It’s your name, don’t you remember?”

  “No.” Angrily. “No, I don’t.”

  Jane exhaled loudly, wearily. Madeline’s departure had affected her more than she realized. It upset the balance at Mont Royal by removing a strong, moderating hand. Meek was fair but stern, and very much opposed to these classes. Others scorned them—like Cuffey, silently standing in the corner. Why didn’t he just stay away, as the rest of them did?