Love and War: The North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  “Remember the rule on my ship. Strike so much as one match for your pipe, and I’ll hang you.”

  Ballantyne and the pilot had agreed on the course of the final dash. They ran some twenty miles north of Cape Fear, then swung around to port, bypassing the northernmost ship on the blockade line. The maneuver accomplished at twilight, they hove to and lay virtually motionless until full dark, then began to slip down the coast toward the mouth of the river.

  Slow going, hard on the nerves. Always, off to their port side, the blue lanterns shone. Now, in the growing light, Cooper detected masts and a hull big enough to belong to a cruiser.

  How far away? Half a mile? If he could see the Yankee, couldn’t its lookout see them?

  Once more he craned his head back. Dear God, the clouds were thin as gauze. A few of the larger ones radiated light from fluffy edges, and, between, he spied stars. In a few minutes the freshening wind would completely scour the sky.

  He dashed for the pilothouse, forgetting in his haste that the boats had been lowered on their davits to the level of the rail. He banged his head, letting out an exclamation that drew an angry “Keep your goddamn voice down” from a crewman crouched at the gunwale. The man had a wool cap pulled over his ears; his face and hands were blacked with coal dust. Cooper had submitted to the same treatment after questioning the need and having Ballantyne reply, “You’ll do it, sir, because it’s better to be dirty than dead.”

  In the pilothouse there was enough moonlight for him to see Ballantyne, the pilot, and the helmsman peering into a large tin cone. The cone shielded the dim light of the compass. Cooper said, “Captain, surely you’ve taken note of the sky. It’s clearing.”

  “Aye.” Ballantyne’s grin, his universal defense against all foes and adversities, seemed to waver in the silver light splashing the enclosure. The helmsman and the pilot whispered to each other. “Bad luck, that,” Ballantyne added.

  “Isn’t the passage too risky now? Shouldn’t we turn back?”

  “What, run for it? If we did, the Yankees’d give chase.”

  “What if they do? We can get away, can’t we? You told me we’re fast enough to outrun any of those ships.”

  “So we are.”

  “And the closer we get to the river, the heavier the concentration of enemy vessels—isn’t that right?”

  “It is.”

  “Then we shouldn’t risk it.”

  “Oh, have you become the master of Water Witch?” Ballantyne asked, growing unpleasant. “I think not. You’re merely a passenger. It’s true we face danger because the clouds broke up unexpectedly. But the owners have given me explicit orders. No unnecessary delays. I am paid to run Cape Fear at all hazards.”

  Furious, Cooper stepped closer to the captain, whose fear-born sweat he could suddenly smell. “The Confederacy won’t fall if a shipment of Havana cigars and bonnet frames is delayed. I’ll not allow your avarice and that of my sist—your owners to place my family in jeopardy. Show a little common sense, man! Turn back.”

  “Get off the bridge,” Ballantyne said. “Get off or I’ll have you hauled off.”

  Cooper reached for Ballantyne’s arm. “Damn your greedy soul. Listen to—” The captain pushed him. Cooper stumbled and almost fell.

  The pilot let out a despairing profanity. “Christ save us—there’s the moon.”

  Flooding white, nearly full, it seemed to sail from behind a glowing cloud. From the pilothouse entrance, Cooper saw the masts and shrouds of four huge vessels light up like stage scenery to port. A baritone voice, amplified by a speaking trumpet, hailed Water Witch.

  “This is the federal cruiser Daylight. On the steamer, heave to and await boarders.”

  “Hell’s fire, stand aside,” Ballantyne cried, pushing the helmsman and bending to the engine-room speaking tube. “Engines ahead full. Give me all the steam you can.” Cooper could imagine conditions below; with the hatches covered, the stokers would be working in an inferno.

  “Oh, my God,” he said as a host of little vessels popped into sight from behind the cruiser. Like silvery water bugs, the federal launches chased the blockade-runner. A thousand yards astern of her, they threw off moonlit bow spray.

  Standing outside the pilothouse, Cooper looked ahead. Beyond the bow he saw a cluster of blue lanterns he hadn’t noticed before. The engines of Water Witch grew louder; the rhythm of paddle blades slapping water quickened. A bosun’s pipe sounded on the Yankee cruiser. Through the trumpet boomed the great disembodied voice. “Heave to or I will open fire.”

  “Ballantyne,” Cooper began, “you’ve got to—” Curses and shouts from the scared sailors overlaid his words, as did Ballantyne’s loud “Keep him out.” The door of the pilothouse slammed, nearly hitting Cooper’s nose.

  “Steam frigate,” the lookout exclaimed. “Dead astern.”

  And there she was, swung out in pursuit a couple of miles behind them, moonlit smoke billowing, all her square sails set to add an extra two or three knots to the speed generated by her boilers. Water Witch began to move faster, leaping free of the heavy surf rolling in to shore on the starboard side.

  Cooper’s gut hurt. One, two, three sparking trails appeared high above Daylight. The moon grew feeble as a trimmed lamp when the Drummond rockets burst, their calcium light whitening everything. Even the muskets of the men in the launches were visible.

  A gun on the pursuing cruiser flashed and went rumph, then another. The shells fell short, raising geysers that shone like liquid diamonds under the flare light. At the first crash, Cooper ran below, his hair flying.

  Their cabin door was open, Judith there, her arms around the children. She tried not to show her fright. Cooper grabbed her damp hand. “Come on, this way.”

  Another shell exploded, this one much closer. The vessel rocked as she strained ahead.

  “Pa, what is it?” Judah exclaimed.

  “The moon came out, and Ballantyne wouldn’t turn back, the son of a bitch. All he cares about is getting his goods to Wilmington—Come on” He jerked Judith so hard, she cried out. He regretted it, but he had to get them to safety.

  “Where are we going?” his daughter said as the hull tilted.

  “To the boats. Ballantyne will have them lowered by now. Our only chance is to row ashore.”

  When the family emerged on deck, Cooper couldn’t believe what he saw: every boat still swaying wildly on its davits. He grabbed a passing crewman.

  “Put the boats down so we can get off!”

  “Nobody’s gettin’ off, mister. We’re runnin’ for the river.” He dashed on, whirling an alarm rattle. The ratchet sounded loud as pistol fire.

  More Drummond lights spread their white glow. A shell came whining in, struck the stern and lifted it. Judith screamed. So did the children. All of them fell against Cooper, tumbling him into the scuppers and crushing him against the rail.

  “Papa, I’m scared.” Marie-Louise flung her arms around Cooper’s neck. “Will the boat sink? Will we be prisoners of the Yankees?”

  “No,” he gasped, struggling to regain his feet as Water Witch rolled again, caught in the heavy surf. Cannon boomed, the glare visible above the rail. Two crewmen turned their heads at a whistling sound. One pushed the other, too late. Scattering grape felled both men and shattered the window of the pilothouse.

  Judith ducked and bit her hand to hold back an outcry. A massive detonation went off belowdecks. Someone yelled, “We’re hulled.”

  At once, the runner listed sharply to starboard. Cooper saw Captain Ballantyne on deck, running back and forth in a state of agitation, trying to find men to help him lower one boat. “Bastard,” Cooper said. “Greedy stupid bastard. Come on, children—Judith—we’re getting in that boat if I have to kill every man on this ship.”

  Balancing on the steeply tilting deck, they slid to the starboard side, where high waves spent their strength against the shoreline. If all else failed, Cooper thought, they might manage to swim and wade to the beach. Holding his daughter,
he worked his way down the slippery incline toward the captain, who had flung himself into the effort to lower a boat.

  “Ballantyne—” Before Cooper could shout anything else, another shell hit belowdecks. The explosion was followed by terrifying noise—the howl of metal rupturing, a furious hiss of steam, and some of the worst screams Cooper had ever heard.

  Water Witch’s port side came up, parallel with the sea. Cooper saw his wife’s blonde head rush past him, downward. He saw her form a word—their son’s name. Judah’s hand had somehow slipped from her grasp. Where was he? Cooper tried to see, still holding fast to Marie-Louise as he himself fell.

  In all the noise, the shrieks, the crash of surf and guns, Ballantyne, incredibly, made himself heard. Cooper had a distorted glimpse of the captain, hair standing out from his head, arms flung wide against the moon.

  “Boilers have burst. Every man for—” Between Ballantyne’s legs, the deck split open and swallowed him, screaming, into clouds of steam.

  The mate, Soapes, and two other crewmen fought to be first to jump over the side. Belowdecks, dying men screamed in the engine room. Cooper was flung against the rail with back-breaking force. He started to clamber over, one arm circling his daughter’s shoulders, the other groping for Judith’s hand and clutching it. The steamer careened farther, its keel rising out of the sea. The Mains fell past the rail into white foam.

  Treading water, gasping, Cooper clung to his wife and daughter. “Where’s—Judah?”

  “I don’t know,” Judith shouted back.

  Then, amidst the debris falling around them as Water Witch broke apart, he spied a floating body whose clothes he recognized. He hurled Marie-Louise at his wife and swam the short distance, fighting against the opposing waves. He had a premonition that his son was dead, probably killed when the boilers burst. As he struggled the last few feet, he tried to summon hope that he was wrong.

  Judah floated face down. Cooper grabbed for his son’s shoulder but miscalculated the distance and caught the boy’s head. The head rolled into sight, steam-scalded, bone showing in several places. Judah was barely recognizable. A wave swept between father and son, leaving nothing in Cooper’s hand but a piece of skin.

  “Judah!” He screamed the name. Away and under went the frail body. “Judah, Judah.” He wrenched back, waves battering him, water cascading over his head, choking him, mingling with demented tears. “Judith, he’s dead, he’s gone, he’s dead.”

  “Swim, Cooper.” She seized his collar, jerking him. “Swim with us or we’ll all die.”

  A section of mast fell just beyond her. Cooper started to paddle with his left arm, and kick, while his right hand supported Marie-Louise, crying hysterically now. On the other side of the girl, Judith helped support her. Cooper felt pain in his chest, then in his muscles as he kicked toward the shore, closer to drowning each time the waves broke over them from behind.

  A moment more, and he felt himself bumped by floating objects. He spat out salt water and vomit, and saw they had struggled into an area where round, gauze-wrapped disks and small wood casks stenciled in Spanish floated. Sherry and cheese, cheese and sherry—sinking, then bobbing up, on the coast of war—

  The sight fused Cooper’s thoughts and fears and feelings, locking them in a solid black delirium. He screamed once more and kept swimming. He remembered nothing else.

  71

  IN THE DEEP AMBER dusk, Orry hurried past a wall on which someone had painted three words, only to have someone else attempt to scrub them away. Just above his head, ghostly white letters spelled DEATH TO DAVIS.

  Neither the message—a not uncommon one these days—nor anything else, including his odious job, could spoil his mood. He was rushing because he had taken longer at supper than he intended. He and his old friend George Pickett had drained a forty-dollar bottle of imported Graves with their meal and packed several years’ worth of reminiscences into a little more than an hour.

  Pickett, who had been Orry’s West Point classmate, looked as handsome as ever. Scented hair flowed over the collar of his uniform, and his smile shone as brightly as Orry remembered. They discussed subjects as diverse as their wives and the fat Yankee Bent, whose hatred of Orry had driven him to plot against Cousin Charles while both were serving with the Second Cavalry.

  Pickett chided his friend for wasting himself in the job of watchdog over General Winder. “Though the Lord knows the poor lunatic ought to be watched by someone, so he doesn’t disgrace us in the eyes of the world.” Orry countered by saying that, menial and unrewarding as his work might appear, he was finding it important as carloads of prisoners came to town every few days, snatched up along the winter lines to swell the populations of already overcrowded Belle Isle and Libby.

  “Winder administers those places, you see. The Yankees would be treated much worse than they are if the War Department didn’t go in from time to time and curb the excesses.”

  Pickett accepted that. When they reached the bottom of the wine bottle, he admitted that despite promotion to major general in the autumn, he was unhappy. During recent months he had commanded the center of the Fredericksburg line, seeing little action. Between the old friends an unspoken truth seemed to hover. The war was not going well for the Confederacy. Soldier and civilian alike felt the stirrings of a poisonous doubt about the outcome. Someone had to be blamed; anonymous malcontents slashed DEATH TO DAVIS on empty walls.

  Although the reunion had touches of melancholy, generally Orry enjoyed it, right down to the final cups of real coffee—three dollars apiece, and no questions asked about how the hotel had obtained it. They walked out arm in arm and parted on the street, Pickett to take his wife to see The Ticket-of-Leave Man at the smart new Richmond Theater, built where the Marshall had burned last year, and Orry to meet Madeline’s train.

  He rushed through the crowded, grimy depot, navigating around sad-eyed youths on litters or crutches, yelling peddlers, and strolling tarts. On a large chalkboard, the arriving Richmond & Petersburg train was shown as 1½ HRS LATE.

  Night fell. The wait seemed far longer than what the board declared. Finally, out beyond the platform’s end, a light appeared on the great trestle sixty feet above the river gorge. The train came in with a squeal of drivers, hissing of brakes, belching of smoke. The weather-bleached cars, most with broken windows, discharged furloughed men returning to duty and civilians of every degree from prosperous to poor. Amid the crowd, Orry stood out because of his height. He saw no one he recognized.

  Had she missed a connection? Not been able to get away on schedule? Passengers waved to waiting friends or loved ones. Blurred, happy faces rushed by. His worry and anxiety deepened. Then, stepping down from the last car, there she was.

  Her traveling dress had picked up the dirt so common on Southern trains these days. Locks of hair had come undone, straggling over her ears and brow. She looked exhausted and beautiful, and, whether in fact or by the alchemy of imagination, she smelled of the sweet olive of home.

  “Madeline!” He shouted and waved like some schoolboy, struggling against the flow of passengers.

  “Oh, Orry—my darling. My darling.” She dropped a portmanteau and two hatboxes and flung her arms around his neck, hugging him, kissing him, weeping. “I thought I’d never get here.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t either.” Happy as a young bridegroom, he stepped back. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes—are you? We must collect my trunk. It was shipped in the baggage car.”

  “We’ll get it and catch a hack outside. I hate for you to see my rooms. They’re all I could get, and they’re dismal.”

  “I’d sleep on a rubbish heap to be with you. Dear God, Orry—it’s been so long—Oh, my. You’ve lost weight.”

  The sentences tumbled over one another, happiness cutting through the annoyances of the long, hard journey. Orry tipped a Negro porter, pointed him toward the baggage car, and located a hack. When they were on their way to the quarters he had hired a woman to clean th
at morning, he sat on Madeline’s left so he could keep his arm around her.

  “I couldn’t wait for you to arrive, but it’s a bad time to be in Richmond. People are miserable. Angrier by the day. Everything’s in short supply.”

  “One thing isn’t. My love for you.” She kissed him.

  She treated his accommodations in the rooming house as if they were palatial. Feasting on the sight of her by the light of a single low-trimmed gaslight, he asked, “Are you hungry?”

  “Only for you. I brought some books—”

  “Hurrah! We can read in the evenings—” Despite the strange, cruel tilting of the world, they might recall at least a little of the past. “Any poetry?”

  “Yes, Keats. And a copy of Dickens’s Pickwick Papers, which I liked very much.”

  “It’s proscribed here. Too vulgar or something.” He couldn’t control his ebullience, going to her and circling her waist with his arm. He kissed her throat. “You must tell me everything new at Mont Royal. We’ve hours and hours of catching up to do—” He gazed into his wife’s eyes, adding softly, “In many ways.”

  Madeline smiled. He changed position slightly so that he could touch and warmly close his hand over her breast. He kissed her with such ardor her back began to bow. Laughing, she broke the embrace. She began to unfasten the cloth-covered buttons of her bodice.

  Naked with her in the cool bedroom, its door ajar to give them light, he gazed at her hair on the pillow and gently, gently pushed the tip of himself into her, experiencing a happiness almost unbearable. There came back to him then a poem they had read repeatedly during the frustrating years when honor and her marriage vows prevented this kind of consummation. Looking down at her, he spoke some of Poe’s Annabel Lee.

  “‘And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me—’”

  “We’ll never be separated again,” Madeline cried. “We mustn’t be, ever. I would die.”

  From a second-floor window on Franklin Street, Mrs. Burdetta Halloran watched a hack arrive at the house directly opposite. A bosomy, cheaply attractive young woman with dark hair paid the driver, ascended the stoop, knocked, and waited with a tense air. A moment later, she stepped into a vertical bar of darkness, and the door closed.