North and South

by John Jakes

  “That’s the one. Do you suppose a Southern girl with a Yankee beau gives lessons in the mistreatment of niggers? You know, just in case he marries into the family?”

  The girl tittered. Billy started after them. Brett pulled him back.

  “Don’t. It isn’t worth it.”

  The couple passed out of sight. Billy fumed, then offered his own apology for the cadet lieutenant’s behavior. Brett assured him she had seen worse. But the earlier mood was shattered. The insulting remark reminded him that if he married her, each of them would face the wrath of bigots in their own part of the country.

  Of course his brother George had dealt with that kind of hatred when he brought Constance from Texas. He had dealt with it and overcome it. If one Hazard could do it, so could he.

  “Law, what is this smelly old place?” Ashton whispered as the Yankee first classman again attempted to insert the key in the lock. The darkness made it difficult.

  “Delafield’s Pepperbox,” the cadet said in a slurry voice. He had obviously drunk a lot before spiriting her out of the hotel, but she didn’t mind. He would probably give her a better time because of it. He was a rather thick-witted sort, but very big through the shoulders. She presumed the bigness was duplicated elsewhere.

  “It’s the ordnance laboratory,” he went on, finally getting the door open. Odors of pitch, paste, and brimstone assailed her. “First classmen get to work down here. We mix up powder, take Congreve rockets apart—”

  “How did you get a key?”

  “Bought it from a cadet who graduated last June. Aren’t you coming in? I thought you said you wanted to—”

  He wasn’t sufficiently drunk to be able to finish the sentence.

  “I did say that, but I didn’t know you’d bring me to someplace that smelled this bad.”

  She hesitated in the doorway. Above her, one of the building’s castellated turrets hid some of the autumn stars. The building was secluded below the northern rim of the Plain.

  From the dark interior, the hard-breathing cadet tugged her hand. “Come in and I’ll give you a souvenir. Every girl who stays at the hotel wants a West Point souvenir.”

  He lurched to her, leaned against the door frame, and fingered one of the gilt buttons on his coat. She had inspected them closely before. They said Cadet at the top, U.S.M.A. at the bottom, and had an eagle and shield in the center.

  Still she hesitated. The stink of the laboratory was overpowering. But so was the need that had been rising in her for weeks.

  “You mean that if I come in there with you, you’ll give me a button?”

  He flicked a nail against one of them. “Just take your pick.”

  “Well—all right.” A slow smile. “But those weren’t the buttons I had in mind,” she added as she put her hand below his waist.

  Later, in the dark, he whispered, “How do you feel?”

  “Like I didn’t get nearly enough, sweet.”

  An audible gulp. “I have a couple of friends. I could fetch them. They’d be mighty grateful. By the time I get back, I’ll be ready to go to the well once more myself.”

  Ashton lay resting, her forearm across her eyes.

  “Fetch them, dear. Fetch as many as you like, but don’t keep me waiting too long. Just be sure every boy you bring is willing to present me with a souvenir.”

  “I tell you I saw it,” said a New Jersey cadet whom Billy knew fairly well. It was three days after the Mains had left for New York. With his index finger, the cadet marked a two-inch width of space in the air. “A cardboard box about this big. Inside she had a button from everyone she entertained.”

  “How many buttons?”

  “Seven.”

  Billy stared, obviously nonplussed. “In an hour and a half?”

  “Or a little less.”

  “Were any of them from her part of the country?”

  “Not a one. Appears that some Yankees can get over a prejudice against Southrons mighty fast.”

  “Seven. I can’t believe it. When Bison hears, he’ll start issuing challenges right and left.”

  “Defending fair womanhood—that sort of thing?”

  “Sure,” Billy said. “She’s his cousin.”

  The other cadet blurted, “Look, no one forced her. Fact is, I’d say it was the other way ’round. Anyway—I don’t think Bison will find out.”

  “Why not?”

  “The lady claimed she’d be back for another visit inside of six months, but she said if any of the seven mentioned her name in the meantime—her name or anything else about the evening—she’d hear of it and there’d be hell to pay.”

  “What kind of hell? Did she get specific?”

  “No. And maybe nobody believed her, but they’re sure acting like they did. Guess it’s because they’d all like to see her again,” he added with a smile that was smug, yet curiously nervous, too. “Or maybe ’cause they don’t want a close view of Main’s bowie knife.”

  Billy suspected Ashton had gulled the seven cadets. He knew of no plans for the sisters to return. Then he realized he had failed to see the obvious—which was right in front of him in the other cadet’s smirk.

  “Wait a minute. If everyone’s keeping quiet, how do you know all this?”

  The smile widened, lewd now, but the undercurrent of nervousness remained. “I was number seven in line. Here’s the best part: she didn’t want coat buttons from all of us who—ah—took advantage of her generosity.”

  Billy felt queasy. “What did she want?”

  “Fly buttons.”

  He turned pale. All he could say was, “Why are you telling me?”

  “Friendly gesture.” That rang false, but Billy kept quiet. “Besides, I saw you sparking the other sister and figured you’d like to know. You drew the better of the pair—from an honorable gentleman’s standpoint, anyway.” He winked. Billy barely saw that and didn’t respond in an amused fashion.

  “Godamighty. Seven fly buttons. We’ve got to keep it from Bison.”

  The cadet’s smile was gone. “That’s the real reason I came to see you, Hazard. I meant what I said about Bison and that hideout knife of his. Not many men scare me, but he does. He scares all seven of us. There’ll be no bragging, no talk at all. Count on that.”

  Later, after the initial shock passed and Billy was again alone, he realized the cadet was right about one thing: he’d been incredibly lucky to escape a liaison with Brett’s sister. He didn’t know what to call her, but there was certainly something wrong with her. He was thankful that she was no longer interested in him. During the entire visit she had barely spoken to him, and had acted as if he didn’t exist. She had forgotten about him, thank the Lord.

  37

  VIRGILIA PULLED THE TATTERED shawl over her shoulders and pinned it. Then she resumed stirring the cornmeal gruel on the small iron stove. One of the stove’s legs was gone, replaced by a stack of broken bricks.

  A November storm was piling a cosmetic layer of white on the tin roofs of nearby hovels. Snow filled the ruts in the lane of frozen mud outside the door. Cutting wind rattled the oiled-paper windows and brought snowflakes through gaps in the wall near a tacked-up engraving of Frederick Douglass.

  Grady sat at a rickety table. His faded blue flannel shirt was buttoned at the throat. He had lost about thirty pounds and no longer looked fit. When he smiled—not often these days—he showed perfect upper teeth, hand-cut and wired in place. Only a slight yellow cast betrayed their artificiality.

  Opposite Grady was a visitor—a slim, fastidious Negro with light brown skin, curly gray hair, and an intense quality in his brown eyes. The man’s name was Lemuel Tubbs. He had displayed a pronounced limp when he walked in.

  The cup of thin coffee Virgilia had set before Tubbs was untasted. He didn’t enjoy visiting the slums in the midst of a blizzard, but duty required it. He was speaking earnestly to Grady;

  “An account of your experiences would lend authenticity to our next public meeting and increase its impact.
Nothing is more powerful in persuading the public of the evils of slavery than the narratives of those who have endured it.”

  “A public meeting, you say.” Grady thought aloud. “I don’t know, Mr. Tubbs. There’s still the problem of South Carolina slave catchers reading about it.”

  “I appreciate the concern,” Tubbs replied in a sympathetic way. “Only you can make the decision, of course.”

  He hesitated before raising a difficult final point. “If the decision should be affirmative, however, we would impose one restriction. We want the strongest possible condemnation of slavery, but there should be no appeals for violent uprisings in the South. That sort of talk alarms and alienates some whites whom we desperately need for the furtherance of our cause. To be blunt, it scares them out of donating money.”

  “So you water down the truth?” Virgilia asked. “You prostitute yourself and your organization for a few pieces of silver?”

  A frown chased across the visitor’s face; for the first time his eyes betrayed a hint of anger. “I would hardly put it in those terms, Miss Hazard.” She still went by that name in anti-slavery circles, preferring it to Mrs. Grady.

  The truth was, the leaders of the movement in Philadelphia were sharply divided on the question of accepting help from Virgilia and her lover, because their extreme opinions tended to create problems. As a matter of fact, so did their mere presence. Part of the leadership wanted nothing whatever to do with them; the other faction, of which Tubbs was the foremost representative, was willing to use Grady provided he would submit himself to a measure of control. Reluctantly, Tubbs decided he’d better emphasize that again.

  “In dealing with power blocs, certain compromises are always necessary if you hope to achieve—”

  “Mr. Tubbs,” Grady interrupted, “I think you’d better leave. We aren’t interested in making an appearance under your terms.”

  Tubbs labored to control his voice and his temper. “I wish you wouldn’t be so hasty. Perhaps you’ll reconsider if I add this. I believe you can be very useful to the cause of abolition—but not everyone in our society shares that view. It took a long time to persuade some of our members to agree to tender this invitation.” A glance at Virgilia. “I doubt it will be repeated.”

  “Grady doesn’t want to speak to milksops and whores,” Virgilia said with a toss of her head. Her hair was uncombed, dull, dirty. “Our brand of abolitionism is Mr. Garrison’s.”

  “Burning the Constitution? That’s what you favor?” Tubbs shook his head. On Independence Day, Garrison had caused a national uproar by touching a match to a copy of the Constitution at a rally near Boston. Virgilia obviously thought he had done the right thing.

  “Why not? The Constitution is precisely what Garrison called it: a covenant with death and an agreement with hell.”

  “Such statements only alienate the people we need most—” Tubbs began.

  Virgilia sneered. “Oh, come, Mr. Tubbs. What kind of attitude is that—if you really believe in the cause?”

  Again his eyes flashed. “Perhaps I demonstrate my belief in a different way than yours, Miss Hazard.”

  “By refusing to take risks? By dressing so splendidly and hobnobbing with bigoted white people? By refusing to sacrifice your own personal comfort and—”

  He exploded then, striking the table. “Don’t prate at me about risks or sacrifice. I grew up as a slave in Maryland, and when I was fourteen I ran away. I took my younger brother with me. We were caught. Sent to slavebreakers. They left me this”—he slapped his bad leg—“but they did worse to him. He’s had a deranged mind ever since.”

  Grady was contemptuous. “And you don’t care about paying them back?”

  “Of course I care! Once, nothing else mattered. Then I escaped to Philadelphia, and in a year or two, when the furor and fear of pursuit abated, I began to think. I’ve become less interested in revenge for myself than in liberty for others. It’s the system I hate most—the system I want to abolish.”

  “I say let it end by violence!” Virgilia exclaimed.

  “No. Any movement in that direction will only guarantee the prolongation of slavery, and all the repressions that go with it—”

  Tubbs faltered, noting their hostility. He rose, carefully placed his stovepipe hat on his gray head. “I’m afraid I’m wasting my breath.”

  She laughed at him. “Indeed you are.”

  Tubbs pressed his lips together but said nothing. He turned and limped toward the door. Virgilia called in a nasty voice, “Be sure to close it on your way out.”

  There was no reply; the door shut softly but firmly.

  Grady had been sitting very straight in his chair. All at once his shoulders slumped. “Not that closing the door will do a blessed bit of good.” He shuddered, partly from cold, partly from despair. “Throw some more wood in.”

  “There isn’t any more wood—and only enough money to get me to Lehigh Station.” She wasn’t angry, just stating facts. She spooned gruel into a tin bowl and set it in front of him. “I’ll have to go home again.”

  Grady peered into the bowl, grimaced, and pushed it away. “I don’t like for you to do that. I hate to have you beg.”

  “I never beg. I tell them what I need, and I get it. Why shouldn’t I? They have enough. They squander more in a single day than all the people here in niggertown spend in a year.” She stood behind him, trying to warm him by kneading his neck with her fingers. “Soldiers at war don’t expect to live in luxury.”

  “Tubbs doesn’t think we’re at war.”

  “Eunuchs like Tubbs have been too comfortable, too long. They’ve forgotten. We’ll win the war without them. The jubilee will come, Grady. I know it.”

  Listless and unconvinced, he reached for her hand while she stared into space. Snow continued to blow in through cracks in the wall, settling on the blankets that served as their bed. In a corner, where there was an even larger crack, the snow had already formed a fluffy loaf on a big pile of rags. Grady picked rags to keep them alive. When there were no rags, he stole. When even that method failed, Virgilia went back to Lehigh Station for a few days.

  “I can’t feel any heat from the stove,” she said. “We’d better crawl under the blankets for a while.”

  “Sometimes I feel so bad for getting you into this kind of life—”

  “Hush, Grady.” Her cold fingers pressed his mouth. “I chose it. We’re soldiers, you and I. We’re going to help Captain Weston bring the jubilee.”

  Grady’s look reproved her. “You aren’t supposed to say his name out loud, Virgilia.”

  She laughed, angering him with her white woman’s superiority. “Surely you’re not taken in by that nonsense? All those code names and cipher books? Dozens of people know the true identity of the man who calls himself Captain Weston. Hundreds know about his activities, and millions more will know in a few months. After we’ve helped him free your people down South, we’ll deal with mine up here. We’ll deal with every white man and woman who opposed us actively or by indifference. Starting, I think, with my brother Stanley and that bitch he married.”

  Her smile and her whispered words scared Grady so badly he forgot his anger.

  “I don’t mind going home for clothing or food,” she assured him as they settled themselves under the cold blankets, which smelled of dirt and wood smoke. “But I wish you’d let me take you along someti—”

  “No.” It was the one point on which he never bent. “You know what people would do to us if we showed up together in that little town.”

  “Oh, yes, I know,” she sighed, pushing herself against him. “I hate them for it. God, how I hate them, my darling. We’ll repay them, too. We—oh.”

  What she felt startled her. Even in the cold he wanted her. Soon they were fighting off their mutual misery in the only way they knew.

  The fringe of the winter storm passed over Lehigh Station, dusting the ground and the rooftops with white. It was still snowing intermittently when Virgilia arrived on
the night boat. Next year she would be able to make these trips in a heated railway coach with no concern about whether the river had frozen. The Lehigh Road had announced plans to extend service to Bethlehem and on up the valley.

  Much as she hated her family, she understood that it was only their tolerance that made it possible for her to survive in Philadelphia. Specifically, the tolerance of her brother George and his wife, who let her stay a night or so at Belvedere and permitted her to steal away with a burlap bag full of cast-off clothing or a valise loaded with tins and paper-wrapped packages of food. Despite her steady drift into the mental set of a revolutionary, a certain practicality remained in Virgilia’s makeup. She really knew better than to bring Grady to Lehigh Station, and she tried to time her arrivals so that darkness concealed them. Certain bigoted citizens of the village might actually attempt to harm her if they saw her. She knew who they were and had marked them for elimination at the proper time.

  Clad only in thin woolen gloves and a coat too light for the season, she struggled up the hill in blowing snow. By the time she reached Belvedere, the snow had turned her hair white. A buggy and blanketed horse stood at the hitching post. She let herself in—George allowed that—and heard voices from the parlor: Constance, George, and another she recognized as the local Roman Catholic priest.

  “What is a Christian response to the Kansas issue?” the priest was asking. “That is the question which plagues me these days. I feel obliged to discuss the matter with each of my parishioners, so I will know their—”

  He stopped, noticing Virgilia in the doorway. George looked at her with surprise, Constance with some dismay.

  “Good evening, George. Constance. Father Donnelly.”

  “We weren’t expecting you—” George began. They never knew when she would arrive; he made the same remark each time. Lately she had begun to find him tiresome.

  An insincere smile acknowledged his statement. Then she said to the priest, “There is no Christian response to the situation in Kansas. It is so-called Christians who have enslaved the Negroes. Any man who dares to bring a slave over a territorial border invites—demands—the only response which is possible. A bullet. If I were out there, I’d be the first to pull a trigger.”