by John Jakes
“Why, that’s wonderful news. It’ll be ever so convenient to have Billy here in Charleston.”
Cooper puzzled over his sister’s curious expression, her odd choice of words. Billy’s presence might be enjoyable, but why should it be convenient for anyone except Brett? Ashton must have been speaking of Brett’s situation.
Yet he wondered about that, recalling the strange glint in Ashton’s eyes. What it meant he couldn’t imagine. But then, he understood Ashton even less than he understood Orry these days.
From high in the gallery, Cooper listened to Huntoon speaking to an overflow crowd in Institute Hall. Ashton’s husband was delivering the last of several addresses in support of Breckinridge for President. Actually, the half-hour oration was largely a harangue against Lincoln.
“A vulgar mobocrat!” Huntoon thumped the podium. The crowd roared. “An illiterate border ruffian pledged to promote hatred of the South and equality for the niggers!”
Groans. Cries of “No, no!” from every corner of the hall. Unable to take any more, Cooper rose, ignoring angry stares from those around him. As Cooper left, Huntoon once more invoked Lincoln’s name, producing more booing and hissing, then a raw-throated yell:
“Kill the baboon!”
Tumultuous applause. They wanted a fight. They refused to heed what Lincoln said—that he would adhere to the platform of his party and not interfere with slavery where it already existed. They heard only their own voices prating of betrayal and the need for resistance. Cooper was more discouraged than he had been in years.
Billy got a shock when he arrived at Fort Moultrie. In fact, he got several.
He remembered Charleston as a friendly, hospitable place where the pace of life was leisurely. Now an air of suspicion and near hysteria prevailed. People talked warmly of secession, hatefully of Lincoln and the Little Giant. They eyed Billy’s uniform in a distinctly unfriendly way.
The second shock came when he realized the nature of the work to be done at the fort on Sullivan’s Island. Drifted sand was to be cleared away from the parapet because armed men could too easily climb those slopes and storm the ramparts. Some of the fort’s fifty-five guns were to be repositioned to provide better protection for Castle Pinckney and Fort Sumter in the harbor. These were preparations for war.
Everyone, military or civilian, knew the Federal garrison probably could not withstand an organized military attack—or even that of a determined mob. Sullivan’s Island was a long, sandy strip of land fronting the sea. Round about the old fort, which was actually the third structure to bear the name Fort Moultrie, stood any number of summer residences. The fort’s interior was vulnerable to sniper fire from the nearby rooftops.
Furthermore, the Moultrie garrison was small: sixty-four men and eleven officers. The core of the fighting force consisted of two companies of the First Artillery—the total including eight regimental bandsmen—under the command of Colonel John Gardner, a relic of the War of 1812 who was ready for retirement. A brusque Yankee from Massachusetts, Gardner didn’t hide his distrust of all Southerners—a poor practice for a commandant who had to deal with and employ local people.
The senior captain, Abner Doubleday, was a tough, capable officer who had graduated from West Point the summer George arrived. Doubleday was especially disliked in Charleston because he made no secret of being an abolitionist.
Four members of the engineers were stationed at Moultrie—Captain John Foster and Lieutenants Meade, Snyder, and Hazard. Also on the post during daylight hours were some civilian workmen Foster had hired in the city and a few artisans he had imported from the North.
During Billy’s first week on duty, Captain Foster twice sent him into Charleston on business. There he again took note of the unconcealed hostility directed at any representative of the Federal government. He expressed his dismay to Doubleday as they stood in the evening wind near an eight-inch howitzer aimed at the Atlantic. Doubleday had just supervised the loading of the howitzer with double canister.
“What did you expect?” Doubleday snorted in response to Billy’s comments. “The people of South Carolina are preparing for war. If you don’t believe me, just wait till the election’s decided.”
Uneasily, he glanced along the parapet. All of Moultrie’s artillery was mounted en barbette, in the open, unprotected by casemates. A hundred men on the roofs of the summer residences could make it impossible for the First Artillery to operate the guns.
“That’s why we fire this lovely lady every day or so,” Doubleday added. “So the local folk don’t think we’re defenseless—even though in some ways we certainly are.”
He shouted the command to fire. The howitzer boomed and bucked, frightening summer guests strolling the beach, and dappling the sea with deadly bits of iron.
One warm Saturday in late October, Captain Foster gave Billy permission to dine away from the post for the first time. Billy was thankful for the opportunity. He had already seen Brett on several occasions, and he knew about her quarrel with her brother. But whenever he pressed the subject of marriage, she immediately began to talk of something else. Was she changing her mind about him? He had to know.
That Saturday night they ate supper at the elegant Moultrie House. The hotel was located in Moultrieville, the village at the end of the island nearest the harbor. After the meal, Billy and Brett walked arm in arm along the beach. A trick of reflected light from low clouds gave the ocean a pure white sheen. Ten pelicans, one behind the other, flew past two feet above the water, which was breaking on the shore with an almost waveless murmur.
“Brett, why don’t we get married?”
“Because you’re so busy moving sand away from the walls of the fort, you don’t have a spare minute.”
“Be serious. You told Orry you didn’t want his permission—”
“Not quite. I told him I didn’t need it. But I’d like to have it. I was furious with Orry the night I left Mont Royal. I said some things I regret.”
Gently she stroked the sleeve of his uniform. “Of course I love you. I’ll marry you no matter what. But I hate to antagonize my family. I care for them as much as you care for yours. Don’t you understand?”
“Yes, of course. But we’ve already waited so long—”
The sentence trailed off. Looking down the shore, he saw Captain Doubleday pacing the parapet with a woman. Even in conversation with his spouse, the captain had a stern air.
“I don’t want us to lose this chance,” he resumed. “Charleston is tense. Anything could happen.”
“Billy, you sound angry with me.”
“It’s the delay I’m angry about. I appreciate that you don’t want to alienate your brother, but will he ever see things our way? Maybe not.”
She didn’t answer. The line of his mouth hardened.
“I love you, Brett, but I can’t wait forever.”
“Neither can I, darling. Cooper promised to speak to Orry again. Just give them both a little more time.”
He gazed out to sea where the howitzer shot had fallen night before last. “Time seems to be the one thing we’re rapidly running out of. Come on, let’s go back to the hotel and see if your boatman has drunk himself senseless.”
He sounded so cross, Brett didn’t say another word as they hurried toward Moultrieville in the gathering dark.
On election day Colonel Gardner sent Billy into Charleston. Reacting to the temper of the city, the colonel had drafted a message to Humphreys, the officer in charge of the four-acre government arsenal. Humphreys was to be ready to load a large quantity of small arms and ammunition onto a Fort Moultrie lighter next day; stored in Charleston, the ordnance was too easily available to a mob.
Billy rowed himself over to the Battery, a hard, time-consuming trip. Gardner had given him permission to eat supper at Tradd Street, so he didn’t want an enlisted man standing around waiting for him. On the Battery he saw workmen erecting a liberty pole. Many houses displayed dark blue bunting carrying the state’s palmetto emblem
. Some loiterers surrounded the head of the steps Billy had to climb after he tied his boat. One, a tough-looking little fellow with a greasy leather eye patch, jerked a thumb at the boat.
“What d’you figure to take back to the fort in that, sir?”
Billy reached the top step and put his hand on his holstered Colt. “Myself. Do you object, sir?”
“Leave him be, Cam,” another roughneck said to the man with the patch. “Nigger Abe won’t be elected for hours yet. After he is, I expect we can find this peacock again.”
Billy’s heart thudded. His gut tensed as he walked forward toward the roughnecks. At the last moment they stepped aside and let him through. He quickened his stride. He had been bluffing when he reached for the revolver. He couldn’t use it even to defend himself; such an incident might precipitate an attack on the fort.
He delivered Colonel Gardner’s message to the nervous commander of the arsenal. “I’ll have everything ready,” Humphreys promised. “But I’ll wager we never get it off the dock. The hotheads won’t permit it.”
Billy passed the Mills House on his way to Cooper’s. He was walking on the opposite side of the street, but he had no trouble recognizing Huntoon and Ashton as they emerged from the hotel. Huntoon touched the brim of his fancy hat, but Ashton’s greeting was no more than a faintly disdainful nod.
At Tradd Street the mood seemed melancholy. Cooper was not home yet. Judith tried to entertain her guest by gathering the children around her at the piano and encouraging them to sing while she played, but they soon stopped; enthusiasm was lacking, somehow. Finally Cooper arrived, apologizing for his tardiness. He had come from James Island, where there were more problems with laying the keel of Star of Carolina.
For supper Judith had prepared a delicious oyster pie with a crackling crust—the oysters came right from the beds in the harbor—but Billy wasn’t hungry. Brett seemed distracted, fussy. Conversation flagged. Judith was serving silver goblets of strawberry ice when bells began to peal.
Cooper frowned. “Saint Michael’s. The telegraph must have brought the first returns from the North.”
“Is it true that tomorrow is an unofficial holiday?” Judith asked.
“It’s true. On the way home I bumped into Bob Rhett. He was jubilant. He said today marked the start of the American revolution of 1860.” Cooper grimaced.
They heard band music. “I’d like to see what’s going on,” Billy said. “Army blue may not be popular or even healthy in a week or two. Would you feel uneasy to be outside, Brett?”
She shook her head. Soon she and Billy were strolling down Meeting toward the Battery. Cooper and Judith had stayed home.
The street was exceptionally busy for early evening, the crowds turbulent though generally good-natured. Billy did notice several scowls, provoked, he assumed, by his uniform. Brett caught her breath in surprise.
“They’re playing the ‘Marseillaise’!”
“They’re crazy,” was his curt reply. A thudding report and a glare of light from the Battery brought him up short. Cannon fire?
Then he relaxed. It was only a salute, not a signal of hostilities. Lord, he was getting as jumpy as a frog on a hot stove.
As they crossed Water Street, Brett pointed. “Do you know those men? They’re watching us.”
“No,” Billy replied, “I don’t think I—wait. I recognize one of them. A loafer I ran into when I tied up at the Battery this afternoon.”
That man, the runty fellow with the eye patch, waved to the others to follow him across Meeting Street. His voice carried as he said, “Let’s talk to that young lady. I’d like to know why she’s hanging around with a damn Yankee.”
“We better tell her it’s unpatriotic,” said another.
“Persuade her,” said a third, scooping a stone out of the street.
Billy counted seven in the group. Four or five had picked up rocks. “Stand behind me,” he said quietly to Brett.
“But surely we’re in no danger on a public thoroughfare—”
The band of men reached the sidewalk. People hurrying toward the Battery flowed past Billy and Brett, paying no attention to them. The man with the eye patch snatched off his filthy cap, hunched his shoulders, and made a great show of pretending to plead.
“Begging your pardon, miss, but the patriotic citizens of Charleston respectfully request that you don’t soil yourself by associatin’ with vermin from the fort.”
Thud, another cannon salute went off. Red light flickered over the buildings along the street.
“You can go to the devil,” Brett said. “I’ll associate with whomever I please.”
“Oh, yes? We’ll see about that.”
Eye Patch sidled forward. Billy pulled his Colt and cocked it. Once again it was a bluff; with so many people passing in carriages and on foot, he didn’t dare fire. Behind him a woman spied the gun and let out a soft shriek. Several pedestrians rushed into the street to avoid trouble.
Eye Patch feinted for Billy’s gun hand. Billy dodged away. Another man flung a rock. It flew past Billy and struck Brett’s shoulder; she cried out. Billy swore, jumped forward, and laid the Colt barrel across the rock thrower’s cheek. The man howled and danced backward, bleeding.
Billy looked around warily. The men were forming a semicircle, closing in. He didn’t want to risk a brawl in which Brett might be seriously hurt. With reluctance, he shouted a word that ran counter to everything in his training and character:
“Run!”
Brett hesitated. He grabbed her arm and practically dragged her away toward Tradd Street. Like wolves after prey, Eye Patch and his friends pursued. Rocks flew. One hit Billy’s neck and broke the skin.
At the corner of Meeting and Tradd, Eye Patch shouted for his gang to halt; Billy was already guiding Brett through the gate at Cooper’s. Panting, they shut the gate and leaned against the wall of the entrance passage. Thud and thud, a second cannon on the Battery joined the first.
“I’ve never run from anyone or anything before,” Billy gasped.
“It was”—like him, she was struggling for breath—“the only thing to do. I can’t imagine people from South Carolina behaving that way.”
He took her hand and led her to the stairs. He hadn’t realized how far the hatred had spread or how deeply it ran. No wonder old Gardner disliked his post and Doubleday fired his howitzer as a warning. Charleston was out of control.
Next day, as Lincoln’s victory in the popular voting became certain, the celebration intensified. When the lighter from Fort Moultrie arrived, an excited crowd refused to permit the small arms and ammunition to be loaded—exactly as the arsenal officer had predicted.
By evening there was jubilation throughout the city. Bands blared. Lamps and candles glowed in almost every house window. Groups of revelers, some sober, some not, roistered past Huntoon’s home on East Battery.
He and Ashton were preparing to leave for the fireworks display on the Battery. Huntoon had found an old blue satin cockade, the symbol of resistance ever since Nullification days. He fastened it to his best beaver hat. Ashton stood before the glass and adjusted her bonnet with black and white feathers on it. Secession bonnets, the ladies called them. They were all the fashion.
“Are they really planning a special convention?” she asked.
“Absolutely. The legislature called it for the seventeenth of December, expressly to determine the state’s future relationship with the North. It’s coming, my darling.” He took hold of her waist and whirled her around. “Independence. In Washington, Senator Chestnut resigned today. Senator Hammond, too.”
Their impromptu celebration was interrupted by the appearance of a house boy.
“Gen’man to see you, Mist’ Huntoon.”
“Damn you, Rex, I can’t see anyone now.”
“He say it’s important.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mist’ Cam’ron Plummer.”
“Oh. “ Huntoon’s truculence faded immediately. “Send h
im to the side door.”
The slave left. Huntoon and his wife exchanged sober looks. Then he slipped out of the room.
In the shadows at the side entrance, a man whispered, “I did the best I could, Mr. Huntoon. Did exactly what you asked. Kept watch till they showed up on the street, then went after ’em. But before we could roust ’em good, they turned tail and ran to the house on Tradd Street. I still got to pay my lads, though. We all done the best we could.”
“I know, I know—keep your voice down.”
Huntoon wasn’t surprised that the scheme had come to nothing. The idea had been Ashton’s, and he had opposed it. She had wept and raved until he relented. Her threat to sleep in a separate room for a month also had something to do with his decision.
But, after giving in, he had regretted it. A man with his ambitions couldn’t afford foolish risks. In the future Ashton could indulge her vindictive nature if she wished, but he would refuse to become involved. To that he made up his mind as he began to count coins into the hand of the man with the eye patch.
55
ORRY PUSHED HIS PLATE away. Cuffey stepped forward.
“Something wrong, Mist’ Orry?”
“Tell the kitchen the beef is bad.”
Cuffey brought the plate near his nose, sniffed, made a face. “Sure enough will. You want something else?”
He shook his head. “Is yours bad, Cooper?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to say anything. I was just going to leave it.”
Coffey hurried out with the plates. Orry slouched in his chair. Autumn rain pelted the closed shutters of the dining room.
“Something’s wrong in the smokehouse again,” Orry said with a sigh. “Dampness getting in. I tell you, I never realized how much I depended on Brett until she left.”
Cooper knew what his brother meant. The signs were small but they were unmistakable. Mont Royal’s shutters were bleached pale as bone by the weather; they needed a fresh coat of oil and pigment. Expensive flocked wallpaper was peeling away in the guest bedroom. Clusters of dust gathered in corners. On his last visit he had been informed that Cuffey’s Anne had delivered twin girls, but one of the infants had died because there were complications. No one had sent for Aunt Belle Nin.