by John Jakes
If that made him a romantic fool, so be it.
On a Saturday afternoon in the spring of 1844, George and Orry found themselves with a free hour and no demerits to work off with extra guard tours. They went hiking in the hills above the Academy. That day Orry learned something about the Hazard family’s involvement with the iron trade. It was not only deep but, in its own way, mystical. And George shared that involvement—a fact he had concealed until now.
As they were walking, the two cadets happened on a round, shallow crater in the hillside. The crater’s diameter was something over two feet. Dirt had run down into the bottom, and the rim was pierced by new shoots of wild grass, suggesting the crater had been hollowed out months or even years before.
Unexpectedly, George looked excited. He knelt by the crater and, with no explanation, dug in the bottom with both hands.
“George, what the devil are you—?”
“Wait! I found something.”
From under the loose dirt he produced his discovery—some kind of cinder, conical in shape and measuring about six inches from point to base. But Orry had never seen a cinder that exact shade of dark brown.
“What on earth is that?”
“Nothing earthly,” George replied with an odd, almost humorless smile. When Orry’s frown signified annoyance with the cryptic answer, George pointed at the cloud-dotted sky. “It came from out there. It’s a meteorite. The color shows there’s a great deal of iron in it. Star iron, the old-timers at the factory call it.” He turned the rough object over and over, studying it with an expression so close to reverence Orry was thunderstruck.
“The ancient Egyptians knew about star iron,” George went on softly. “This piece may have traveled millions and millions of miles before it crashed here. My father says the iron trade has had more influence on the course of history than all the politicians and generals since the beginning of time”—he held up the meteorite—“and this is the reason. Iron can destroy anything: families, fortunes, governments, whole countries. It’s the most powerful stuff in the universe.”
“Oh?” Orry’s skeptical glance fell on the Plain below. “You really think it’s more powerful than a big army?”
“Without weapons—without this—there are no big armies.”
He said it with such intensity that Orry shivered. A few moments later they moved on. Soon George was his old self again, chatting and joking. But he still had the meteorite in his hand. Back in barracks, he wrapped it and stored it away like a treasured possession.
One night near the end of May, George ran it for cigars. He pulled up short outside the door of Benny Haven’s. Inside, a boisterous crowd was serenading the proprietor with an old and familiar song. Each West Point class tried to add a memorable verse to the song, one that would be passed down to others. Most of the verses were bawdy, but just now the revelers were bellowing a polite one:
“Come, tune your voices, comrades,
And stand up in a row.
For singing sentimentally
we’re going for to go.
In the Army there’s sobriety,
Promotion’s very slow,
So we’ll sing our reminiscences of
Benny Haven’s, oh!”
George peeked through the window and frowned. Too many first and second classmen in there, including that damn Bent. He thought about turning around and leaving, but he had been without cigars for several days.
A second peek showed him a couple of yearlings in the group. Most of the cadets were drunk. Spring had that effect. Quickly he planned his tactics. He’d give the upperclassmen no excuse to think he felt guilty. It was mostly a matter of deportment. He put his shoulders back, fixed a cocky smile in place, and went in.
“Benny Haven’s, oh!
Benny Haven’s, oh!
We’ll sing our reminiscences of
Benny Haven’s, oh!”
The upperclassmen turned on him, but their shouted threats were perfunctory and brief. George bought his cigars and was on his way out when Bent lurched to his side and threw an arm across his shoulders.
George’s stomach tightened. So did his right hand. But fists weren’t necessary. Bent’s eyes had a vague, bleary look. He asked George to join him for beer, muttering something about all of them forgetting the past. That didn’t lull George for one second, though he agreed to have a drink because it was free and he was thirsty.
Elkanah Bent was tipsy and hence not as pompous as usual. He babbled excitedly about a piece of recent news from Washington. The inventor Morse had sent a message over a wire all the way to Baltimore.
“Don’t you understand the significance, Hazard? It’s the dawn of the age of improved military information. Exactly what old Mahan predicted! In the next war—”
“What next war?” George interrupted.
“How should I know?” Bent spilled beer over his chin and uniform as he drank. “But it will come, sure as the seasons.” Some of the dullness left his eyes. “Human beings can’t settle their differences any other way. It’s the nature of the animal. For the sake of our careers, I say thank God.”
Some of the other cadets were listening. One stared at Bent with a disbelieving expression much like that on George’s face. The Ohioan paid no attention. His voice took on an unexpected intensity. “When this country fights again, she’ll be looking for new leadership.” He leaned forward, cheeks glistening, lips moist. “The Army will be seeking an American Bonaparte.”
George uttered a nervous laugh. “Well, Mr. Bent, you see a larger canvas than I do. I hope I’m out of the Army before this gigantic war of yours. But if not, I’ll have just three objectives. Carry out orders. Do so with reasonable effectiveness. And dodge the bullets.”
“Quite right,” Bent said with a wave. “A prudent general never exposes himself to fire. The individual soldier is nothing more or less than one of Mr. Whitney’s interchangeable parts. Better that fifty thousand such parts should be lost than a brilliant leader.”
“Interesting theory,” George muttered, rising abruptly. He offered a word of thanks for the drink, but Bent didn’t hear. He was too busy snatching at George’s sleeve in an attempt to keep his audience.
George pulled away. He was disgusted by the sodden creature and what he had said. He needed fresh air and the sight of something besides Bent’s small, crazed eyes.
That same week, Pickett invited George, Orry, and several other friends to a hash. Such affairs were a tradition at West Point. For three days preceding the event, the invited guests filched leftover meat, potatoes, butter and bread from the mess hall. They carried off the food in the traditional way—concealed in forage caps from which the rattan hoop stiffeners had been removed.
On Saturday night, after inspection of quarters, the guests gathered in Pickett’s room. Using the donated ingredients, the Virginian prepared the hash in stolen utensils that were the common property of all the cadets in the barracks. A serving of hot hash was given to the nearest sentinel, thus ensuring that the party would be ignored until taps.
It was a happy, carefree occasion. Conversation was lively and wide-ranging. They talked about the Oregon problem; the April treaty providing for the annexation of Texas; the Democratic nominating convention that only the day before had turned from the favorite, Van Buren, and chosen a border man, Polk, who was an avowed expansionist.
Those looking forward to summer leave discussed their plans. Orry was among them. Then George brought up his most recent encounter with Bent.
“When he spoke about an American Bonaparte, I swear he was referring to himself. What’s worse, I got a clear impression that he’d cheerfully send a regiment to be butchered if it served his purpose. He wouldn’t think twice about it, either. He called soldiers ‘interchangeable parts.’”
Pickett reached into the fireplace for the skillet in which he was reheating the last of the hash. “If you’ll pardon an execrable pun, gentlemen, the cadet under discussion is hell-bent for glory. God pity an
yone who obstructs that advance, intentionally or otherwise.”
A slender cadet from Missouri said, “I think you’re all taking him too seriously. He’s a jackass. A clown.”
“If you dismiss him that easily, you’re the jackass,” George countered.
“Amen,” Orry said. “He’s dangerous. Maybe even crazy. Stay out of his way.”
“And finish the hash,” Pickett added.
6
ORRY TRAVELED SOUTH BY coastal steamer. At his first meal in the dining saloon, he felt self-conscious in his furlough uniform. The coat’s long, narrow swallowtails carried an extravagant number of stamped gilt buttons, as did each cuff. The uniform certainly drew attention. All of it was favorable and friendly, except for that of a Connecticut merchant who grumbled about a pampered military aristocracy. The merchant thought a civilian board should be appointed to oversee the Academy.
At Charleston, Orry hired a horse so as to have a slower trip upriver than a boat would provide. He wanted to savor the sights of his homecoming. He’d been away two years and somewhat to his amazement, he had survived an astonishing number of tests of character and intellect. The realization brought a good feeling. This leave would be perfect if only a girl were waiting for him, a special girl to whom he could give the cadet’s traditional gift of love—the gold embroidery wreath decorating the black velvet band of his furlough cap. The wreath contained the letters U.S.M.A. embroidered in the Old English style.
But there was no such girl. He had begun to resign himself to living his entire life without finding her.
Heavy rain started to fall as he rode out of the city. He stopped to put on his blue furlough coat and pull his cap lower so the bill would keep the water out of his eyes. Even so, he knew he’d be soaked when he reached Mont Royal, where he planned to meet Cooper. From the plantation the two of them would travel on to the family’s summer residence.
To the right he glimpsed the rain-dappled river. On his left rose dark thickets of palmetto and oak, with occasional vistas of marsh visible between. The air was heavy with humidity, full of familiar sounds and smells.
He met two Negroes driving a produce cart to Charleston. One pulled out a pass and showed it to him without being asked to do so. No slave could travel anywhere unless he had written authorization from his master. Parish patrols policed the roads and checked passes, although not as thoroughly as some planters would like. The system was years old, intended to prevent gatherings of slaves that could lead to an uprising.
He had been riding about an hour when he heard alarmed voices. He cantered around a bend, then reined in. Ahead he saw a fine lacquered carriage lying on its side to the right of the road.
Then he noticed that a section of the road had been washed away, leaving only about half the regular roadbed and creating a sharp slope. The carriage must have run off the road and crashed down the slope while trying to negotiate the narrowed section. Orry saw broken traces but no sign of a horse.
The white driver stood beside the exposed bottom of the carriage, straining to reach up and open the door by lifting it. The agitated voices were feminine, although Orry could not see the women. He did see half a dozen satchels and trunks littering the roadside. One had burst open, spilling white garments into the gluelike mud. The garments were lavishly decorated with lace, he noted as he rode ahead. The passengers were not poor.
The driver took note of Orry’s uniform. “Sir, are you a constable?”
“No, but I’ll be glad to help.”
“My arms don’t seem long enough to open this door.”
“Let me try.”
While he was dismounting, he thought he saw something long and thin slither swiftly across the side of the coach and drop out of sight through one of the windows. He had an impression of olive coloring and dark bands.
Orry moved with near-frenzied speed then. As he reached the carriage, he saw that the side onto which it had fallen lay in a marshy pool. His identification of the snake had probably been correct.
“I’ll get up there,” he told the driver. He climbed via the axle and rear wheel, stepped on the side of the carriage, and looked down into two of the largest, darkest eyes he had ever seen. Even through his carefully concealed tension he observed that the white woman was young, pale-skinned, very lovely. Her companion was a black woman, older.
“We’ll have you out soon, ladies.”
He crouched and reached for the door handle, trying to be casual about his visual search of the interior. Then he spied it, motionless on the folds of the white girl’s skirt, the back of her skirt, which of course she couldn’t see.
Orry’s cheeks dripped sweat and rain. “Ladies, I beg you to keep control of your nerves while you listen to me.” His low, urgent tone got their attention. “Please don’t move suddenly or do anything at all until I say so. A snake has gotten into the carriage—”
Their eyes widened. The black woman started to look down, but he whispered, “Don’t do that. Stay absolutely still.”
They did, and so did he. The snake had just opened its jaws, exposing its fangs and the cottony white interior of its mouth. A drop of moisture fell from Orry’s chin; another. The sound of his racing heart seemed thunderous inside his head.
“Est-ce que le serpent est venimeux?” the white girl asked. Then she realized she had spoken in French. “Is the snake poisonous?”
Orry kept his voice low. “Very. They don’t strike unless they feel threatened. They are easily alarmed, however. That’s why I ask you to refrain from any sudden movements and from speaking loudly. If you do that, everything will be fine.”
He was lying to them. Or at least exaggerating. Fortunately they couldn’t get inside his skin and feel his tightness, his fear.
With a little smile of apology, the girl said, “We don’t understand these things, sir. We’re city people.”
And not from the Carolinas, he knew from listening to her speech. He kept his eye on the water moccasin. The snake had closed its jaws again.
Suddenly the black woman’s fear got the better of her. Her shoulders began to shake. She bit her lower lip and tried to hold back tears, but she couldn’t.
“Calm her,” Orry whispered to the girl. “Do anything to keep her quiet.”
Obviously the girl was terrified, but that didn’t immobilize her. Slowly, and with great care, she slipped a gloved hand up along the older woman’s sleeve. She pressed gently, her voice murmurous.
“Mère Sally, prière de se taire encore un moment. J’ai peur aussi. Mais si nous pourrons rester tranquilles une minute de plus, nous serons en sécurité. J’en suis sûre.”
The black woman mastered her fear. She lifted her left hand and touched the girl’s pale purple glove—a demonstration of appreciation. But her movement was too abrupt, the rustle of her blouse too loud. Before Orry could shout a warning, the snake jumped.
The girl felt it on her skirt and screamed. Orry’s vision swam for one panicky second. He gripped the edge of the window, leaned forward, looked down—
The moccasin was gone. It had dropped out through one of the lower windows, frightened away.
Orry felt he’d botched the rescue. The travelers didn’t agree. All three thanked him effusively while he inspected the interior of the carriage, laid the door back, and lifted the women to safety.
He assisted the black woman first, then the girl. As she stepped on the side of the coach, he held her waist a moment longer than necessary. He couldn’t help it. He was taken with her white-as-cream skin, her dark eyes and glossy black hair, her exquisitely full bosom under a stylish traveling suit. She was about his own age. In all his life he had never seen such a beautiful creature.
“We can never repay you,” she said. The lilt of the last word left the sentence unfinished on a note of inquiry.
“Main. Orry Main.”
“Are you a soldier?”
“Not yet. I attend the Military Academy at West Point. I’m on my way home on a two-month furlough.”
“You live nearby?”
“Yes, our plantation’s just up the river.”
He climbed down, reached up, and helped her negotiate the wheel and axle. The pressure of her gloved fingers left him aglow with pleasure. Her face was full, and so were her lips. In fact there was a certain deliriously passionate quality about her mouth which only enhanced her unmistakable aura of refinement by contrasting with it. Orry released her with reluctance.
“My name is Madeline Fabray. We are traveling to a plantation named Resolute. Do you know it?”
With difficulty he refrained from frowning. “I do. The LaMotte place. It isn’t far.”
“We have come all the way from New Orleans, Maum Sally and Villefranche and I. None of us has ever been more than two days’ journey from our home. People in New Orleans are fearfully provincial, I’m afraid. Many will tell you there’s nothing on the continent worth seeing after you’ve strolled across the Place d’Armes to the Mississippi.”
She was teasing, of course. He reveled in every word. She continued, “In any case, the Carolinas are very new to us. We had hoped to arrive at Resolute by dinner time, but clearly we won’t. I must say these roads are pitiable. So many deep holes. Villefranche is a fine driver, but this narrow place proved too difficult. The horses slipped and bolted, the carriage overturned—”
A shrug, broad and expressive. She gave him a wondrous warm smile. “Fortunately a cavalier rode by to rescue us.”
Orry turned pink. “You owe more to the snake’s state of nerves than you do to me.”
“No, Mr. Main, it is you to whom I shall be grateful.” Madeline Fabray touched his sleeve impulsively. “Always.”
Her eyes remained on his for a moment. Then, coloring noticeably, she withdrew her hand, and a fleeting look of chagrin crossed her face.
Orry didn’t understand the reaction. He thought she had wanted to put her hand on his sleeve, but after she’d done it, she had regretted it. He had heard New Orleans women had highly refined manners, but touching a man’s arm in gratitude was hardly a cardinal sin. What was wrong?