North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

There was a long, dangerous moment when they stared at one another. Then, like two bears that had clawed and bloodied each other to exhaustion, they simply turned away, both of them, and gave up the fight.

  Little Harry Venable wouldn’t give up. He followed Charles through the trees, and Charles took some satisfaction from that. Custer’s decision had reduced the Kentuckian to something like a small boy who didn’t dare use his fists, only taunts:

  “It’s a long way to Fort Dodge. I hope the hostiles catch you.” They probably will, Charles thought. “I hope they carve your heart out.”

  Charles stopped. Venable inhaled loudly. Charles stared at him with a twisted smile. “You hopeless little pile of shit. My war’s over.”

  “What?”

  He turned and walked on. He knew Venable would never pull his gun.

  He found Satan, untied him, patted him, and mounted. He judged the time to be around four, but the November afternoon was exceptionally cloudy and dark. He rode out of the Cheyenne village at a trot, every movement of the piebald painful to him. The flesh around his left eye was puffy, his vision squeezed to a slit. He could do nothing about the gash on his face except let it bleed until it clotted. He could wash at the stream where the Seventh had found Elliott—if he got that far.

  An Indian was approaching on the open ground. Charles reined in, reaching for the Spencer in its scabbard. He saw that the hobbling Indian was one of the Osage trackers. The Indian’s leggings were soaked. He proudly showed something in his hand.

  “Scalp of Black Kettle. Put him in the deep water. He will be bad meat soon.”

  “You bastard,” Charles said, and rode on.

  He crossed the Washita. The water rose to his thighs. Satan strained to keep his head out. Charles was shivering and his teeth were chattering when they emerged. A distant trumpet sounded boots and saddles. Without looking, he could picture the various units of Custer’s command forming up to march.

  All of the Indians were downstream, or else it had grown so dark that he couldn’t see them on the bluffs. Going up over the edge where the attack had started, he heard Custer’s band playing. He knew the tune from the war. “Ain’t I Glad to Get Out of the Wilderness.”

  No, he wasn’t. A devastating truth had come to him during the icy river crossing. He didn’t belong in South Carolina any more. He didn’t belong in Kansas, trying to raise vegetables or dairy cows. And he didn’t belong in the U.S. Army, much as he’d liked some of the men he knew in the Tenth Cavalry. What the soldiers had to do was wrong. Maybe they weren’t culprits individually, but together they were. He’d thought he could stomach what the Army had to do. He’d convinced himself he could in order to revenge the Jacksons. And he’d marched all the way to the Washita to find out he was wrong.

  There was no place for him in all the world.

  Smaller and smaller, horse and rider diminished into the snowfields and the dark of the Indian Territory.

  ___________

  Headquarters Seventh U.S. Cavalry)

  In the Field of the Washita River)

  Nov. 28, 1868)

  In the excitement of the fight, as well as in self-defence, it so happened that some of the squaws and a few children were killed and wounded. …

  One white woman was murdered by her captors the moment we attacked. …

  The desperate character of the combat may be inferred from the fact that after the battle the bodies of thirty-eight dead warriors were found in a small ravine near the village in which they had posted themselves. …

  I now have to report the loss suffered by my own command.

  I regret to mention among the killed, Major Joel H. Elliott and Capt. Louis W. Hamilton, and nineteen enlisted men. …

  Excerpts from report to

  GENERAL SHERIDAN

  _________

  MADELINE’S JOURNAL

  December, 1868. Gen. Custer’s defeat of the Indians still much in the news. One editor lionizes him, the next scorns him for “warring upon innocents.” I dislike him without having met him. I have never liked men who behave like peacocks. …

  … A tedious two days now concluded. Was called upon to smile excessively, explain endlessly about Mont Royal’s return from its ruined state of three years ago. Eight members of the Congress here, on a “tour of inspection” (which seems more like a holiday—three brought their wives, nearly as self-important and prolix as their husbands). The man to whom the others defer, Mr. Stout of the Senate, waxes oratorical even in the most incidental conversation. I liked neither his smoothness nor the speed and certainty with which he offered opinions—yes to this, no to that, every remark reflecting Radical policy without thought or question.

  As to the reason for the visit, I gather M.R. has acquired something of a reputation as a showplace, for the Washingtonians tiresomely inspected everything: the phosphate fields, sawmill, a drill by our District Militia, which Andy commands. Senator Stout spent an hour seated like a pupil in Prudence Chaffee’s class, making sure two journalists from his entourage were present to transcribe his comments. A pox on politicians.

  Not comfortable to have the plantation singled out by the Radicals in this way. We are trying to avoid attention, and the trouble which usually attends it. …

  … Another lonely Christmas season. Brett’s letter from California expressed similar feelings of melancholy. All is well with Billy’s engineering firm, she says. The baby, Clarissa, is four months and thriving. They have had no word from G. in Switzerland since May. It causes them great anxiety. …

  George dined at half past one, his usual time. The Palace was one of Lausanne’s fine hotels and had a splendid kitchen. As a regular, in warm weather he had his own small table by the marble rail of the terrace. Now that winter had swept the tourists out of Switzerland, he had moved inside to a table for one beside a tall window overlooking the same terrace. Through the window he could see across the city’s center to Lake Geneva, where one of the trim little steamers berthed at the nearby resort of Ouchy was steaming toward the south shore. He noticed that the sunlight was already pale and slanting.

  A few dead leaves whirled across the terrace. He finished his dinner, an excellent terrine of lobster, and his bottle of wine, a delicious Montrachet, and left the table. As he crossed the dining room, he spoke politely to a trio of Swiss, bankers who ate there regularly and had grown aware of him as a regular, too.

  They often speculated about the American. They knew he was very rich. They knew he lived without companions, except for servants, in a vast, rather forbidding villa that had a splendid view of the hilly town from the Jorat heights. They wondered among themselves what had marked him.

  What they saw was a stout, short man, middle-aged—George had observed his forty-third birthday—with wide streaks of white in his neat dark beard. His posture was very correct, yet he seemed somehow defeated. He smoked a great many strong cigars, with nervous movements; he left most of them half finished. He seemed to possess everything and to have suffered in spite of it. He was, unlike most of his countrymen who visited Lausanne, unapproachable. The tourists prattled endlessly; his warmest greeting was a word or two.

  Had his wife left him? Was there some other scandal? Ah, perhaps that was it. He bore a certain resemblance to engraved portraits of the new American President, the general, Grant. Could he be a disgraced relative, exiled?

  It would remain his secret. Gentlemen did not pry.

  At the dining room door, George said a few words to the headwaiter in French, tipped him, collected his stick, hat, and fur overcoat, and crossed the lobby. An heiress from Athens, a striking olive-skinned woman, expensively dressed, took note of him and caught her breath; she was recently widowed. While a porter sorted her luggage, she tried to catch the eye of the imposing stranger. Nothing forward; merely a recognition. He saw her but strode on. She had the sensation of gazing into a snowbound pool in the heart of a winter wood. Dark waters, and cold.

  George walked down a sloping street tow
ard the estate agent’s, located just beyond the splendid Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame. There, he found the week’s mail delivery, a leather pouch which he tucked under his arm. He walked briskly back up the hills. It took more than an hour to reach the villa, but it was his only activity these days, and he forced himself to do it.

  The villa also had a terrace, and a handsomely appointed study overlooking it. A fire was already going in the marble hearth. He pulled a chair close to a bust of Voltaire—Lausanne had been a favorite city of his—and examined the contents of the pouch, starting with the two recent numbers of the Nation, the weekly Republican journal started in ’65 by Edwin Lawrence Godkin. The publication favored such party causes as honest government and bureaucratic reform. George marked an article for reading later. It dealt with resumption, a return to the gold standard as an antidote to all the inflated paper currency circulated during the war. Hard versus soft money was a passionate issue in his homeland.

  Next he unfolded a three-page report from Christopher Wotherspoon. The profits of Hazard’s ironworks were up once again. His superintendent recommended substantial political donations to those congressmen and senators who favored strong protective tariffs for the iron and steel industry. He requested approval from George.

  There was a rather sad letter from Patricia, written in September, asking what he wanted for Christmas. He could think of nothing. His children had sailed to Europe in the summer, but their visit during the month of July had seemed interminable to him, and, he supposed, to them, since he was uninterested in sightseeing. They had done that for a week, then spent the remainder of the visit playing lawn tennis for hours every day.

  Jupiter Smith, who packed the weekly mail pouch, had included three copies of Mr. Greeley’s New York Tribune, with items of financial news marked. There was also an elaborately inscribed invitation to a Republican fete celebrating Grant’s inaugural in March, and another to the inauguration itself. George threw both into the fire.

  He clipped one of his Cuban cigars, which cost him nearly seven dollars each to import, though he no longer kept track of such things. He wasn’t an extravagant man in most respects, and if money for small creature comforts ever ran out, he would shrug and then decide what to do.

  He lit the cigar and stood by the window. Below the charmingly tiered city he saw another steamer, returning in the late afternoon. From the heights of Jorat it was a mere speck, like himself.

  He thought of Orry’s widow, a handsome and intelligent woman. He hoped Madeline was weathering the political turmoil in the South. He was not moved to write and inquire. He thought of his son, and of William’s decision to read law; George continued to have no strong reaction one way or another. He thought of Sam Grant, an acquaintance from cadet days, and wondered whether he would be a good president, since he had no practical experience. He would probably try to run the government like a military headquarters. Could that be done? With a twinge of shame, he realized that when questions arose about the future of his country, he really didn’t care about the answers.

  On the lake, the steamer was gone. George remained by the window for some time, smoking and staring at the bright water. He had found there was great comfort in saying nothing, doing nothing, reacting to nothing. Or, as little of each as was possible in order to live. That way, though one became a creature of monotony, one never got hurt.

  Mr. Lee from Savannah brought the final plans. There is now enough money again. Work will begin after New Year’s. Orry, how it breaks my heart that you are not here to see. …

  … Theo back again, out of uniform. There is something nervously distracted about him. About M-L, too. …

  The lovers embraced in the sharp evening air, safe from observation in the heavy underbrush that had grown up where the formal garden once stood. Marie-Louise almost swooned when Theo’s tongue slipped into her mouth. She was frightened but didn’t pull away. She locked her hands behind his neck and swayed backward, so that the weight of his heavy wool coat and his body pressed her in a deliciously sinful way. Theo’s lips moved over her cheek, her throat. His hand rode up and down on the side of her skirt.

  “Marie-Louise, I can’t wait any longer. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Theo. I’m as impatient as you.”

  “I’ve found the means. Let’s tell her.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Why not? She’ll help us.”

  “I don’t know. It’s such a big step.”

  Earnestly, with great affection, he took her right hand between his. “I’ve cast my lot in South Carolina. And with you. If you’re just as sure, there’s no reason to wait.”

  “I’m sure. I’m frightened, though.”

  “I’ll speak for both of us. All you need do is hold fast to my hand.”

  Marie-Louise felt as if she were dropping through a great dark space toward—what? Something she could only imagine. It would be bliss, or it would be disaster. She swayed and Theo caught her with one hand, a little amused by her girlish romanticism, yet in love with it, too. She whispered, “All right, let’s tell her.”

  He whooped and whirled her around by the waist. A moment later they were hurrying up the dark lawn toward the lighted whitewashed house.

  “Resign your commission?” Madeline said, astonished.

  “Yes. I notified my superiors yesterday that it was my intention.”

  While Theo spoke, Marie-Louise stayed half hidden behind him. She held his left hand as though it were a lifeline. The young couple had burst into the house while Madeline was spreading the architect’s drawings on the floor to point out details of the new great house to Prudence. In the corner lay some fresh-cut pine boughs intended for Christmas decoration.

  “I reached my decision on the basis of two circumstances,” Theo continued, with a formality that would have made her smile if his plan was not potentially so disruptive. “First, you said you might find temporary work for me here.”

  “Yes. I think you’d make an excellent manager for Mont Royal’s mill and mining operations. But I never had any intention of precipitating—”

  “You didn’t,” he broke in. “I’m resigning chiefly because of the other circumstance.” He stepped forward, blurting, “Last week—”

  “Theo.” She pointed. “Forgive me, but you’re standing on the new Mont Royal.”

  “Oh, no! I’m so sorry—” He jumped back, let go of Marie-Louise’s hand, and knelt to smooth the wrinkle his boot heel had left on the drawing. Prudence smiled. Madeline chided herself for fussiness; it was another sign of age.

  “There. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. No harm done. You mentioned a second circumstance affecting your decision.”

  He gulped and leaped: “I’ve located an Army chaplain in Savannah who is willing to marry us.”

  Marie-Louise didn’t breathe. She grasped Theo’s hand again and held it tightly. The four lamps around the room shed an uncompromising light on Madeline’s lovely but lined face. “Even though Marie-Louise isn’t of legal age?” she asked.

  He nodded, tugging at his cravat and then his mustache. “Yes. The chaplain—well, he doesn’t like rebs very much. I told him Mr. Main was in the Confederate Navy Department and that’s all it took.

  Madeline sat back, frowning. “You put me in a very hard position. I can’t condone such defiance of Cooper. And Judith.”

  “We’re not asking that you condone it—” Theo began.

  “Only that you give us a day or two,” Marie-Louise pleaded. “Just don’t tell Papa until we’re back. Theo will do it then.”

  “That will still make me a party to deceiving him.”

  “Say that you knew nothing about it,” Theo responded.

  “Marie-Louise disappeared and I knew nothing about it?” He blushed, recognizing the foolishness of it. “No. I’d have to be prepared to assume my share of blame.” She was silent a moment. “I don’t think I want that.”

  Marie-Louise rushed to her, almost in tears. “If
Theo speaks to Papa first, you know Papa will say no. He’ll go on saying it till hell freezes.”

  “Marie-Louise,” Theo said, stunned. Refined girls didn’t say such things.

  “Well, it’s true. If you won’t let us go, Aunt Madeline, we’ll never be able to marry. Never.”

  Prudence went to comfort her; the young teacher was growing fatter, and tended to waddle. Madeline reflected on the situation, wondering why, now that the Klan seemed to have retreated in silence, and construction was about to start, this new problem had to be brought to her.

  She wanted to stand by her refusal and spare herself another scene with Cooper. Then she remembered Orry describing what he’d put Brett and Billy through before the war, when he was uncertain about the wisdom of a Carolina girl marrying a Northern officer. He’d withheld his permission and kept them in torment when hardly anything else could have stopped them.

  She studied the lovers. Did she have the right to deny them? Marie-Louise was right; Cooper would be unreasonable. But who was she to judge whether their love was genuine, mature, worthy of the permanent bond of marriage? Had her first burst of love for Orry been mature? No, far from it.

  “Well, I’ll probably rue it. But I am an incurable sentimentalist. I’ll grant you forty-eight hours.” Prudence clapped. “You may also have use of my elegant wagon for your bridal carriage,” she added, wryly.

  It’s done. How they glowed with anticipation as they drove away! I hope their love will sustain Theo when he goes, as he must, to face his father-in-law. I will ride out the inevitable storm somehow. Cooper’s regard for me could sink no lower under any circumstances …

  … Next day. At noon, two of our black men unloaded the first wagons of construction lumber. The lumber sits where I can see it as I pen this, neat stacks of yellow pine, rough-hewn and finished in our own mill. Perhaps we can celebrate next Christmas in the new house.

  Oh, the world is set right again! …

  “I’ll not have a Yankee soldier for a son-in-law,” Cooper shouted at his wife after the young man spoke his rehearsed speech, took Cooper’s abuse, and left, disappointed and noticeably pale. “I’ll get the authorities on him. There is some legal way to undo it.”