Love and War: The North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  The mob, grown to around one hundred and fifty, brushed with a squad of soldiers, many of whom wore head or arm bandages; the city had even turned out the Invalid Corps for the emergency. The mob easily scattered the invalids and marched on through the glass glitter. The day darkened more rapidly than usual. Heavy smoke, lurid red from all the fires, pressed down on the rooftops. Fire bells tolled from every quarter as the crowd surged into Clarkson Street, a lane of tenements and shacks built from packing boxes.

  “Where are they? Where are the niggers?” people shouted. Except for two little girls playing beside an immense garbage heap where fat rats scampered, no human beings could be seen. Jones scanned the tenements. Broken windows, open windows—all were empty.

  Some of the rioters vanished behind the packing-box shanties and. began tipping outhouses. Most of the whites wanted better sport; they converged on the garbage heap. The rats and the little girls fled. Suddenly Jones spied a head in a third-floor window. “There’s one!”

  The head vanished. Jones led a party of ten up through the fetid building, kicking open doors in the search. They discovered a young Negro couple and an infant lying on a pallet. A smiling white woman picked up the child, rocked it back and forth a few times, then stepped to the open window, leaned out, and dropped it.

  The mother screamed. Jones bashed her head with the truncheon. Outside, in the reddening light of the burning city, they carried the husband and wife to a stunted tree near the garbage heap. Ropes went up, and the two were quickly tied so they hung by their wrists. A shrieking white woman rushed forward with a butcher knife, but a man held her back.

  “Don’t use that. I found some kerosene.”

  He doused it on both Negroes; kerosene dripped on the hard-packed ground. Jones shivered, pleasurably imagining the buck was Orry Main. The husband pleaded for the mob to spare his dazed, bleeding wife. That only generated more jeers and jokes. Someone struck a match, tossed it, jumped back—

  The fireball erupted with a roar. A smile spread over Jones’s cherubic face as he watched the victims burn.

  Horsemen. That was the sound he heard. Horsemen cantering through the pines beside the rail line. Hands on top of his head, Billy opened his eyes.

  Six men, two in uniform, reined up around the others. The one to whom Black Suit and the rest immediately deferred was a slight, slender officer with sandy yellow hair showing under a hat with an ostrich plume. The man’s gray cape, tossed back over both shoulders, displayed a bright red lining. The officer was about thirty. His clean-shaven face looked stern but not unkind. He seemed more interested in Black Suit than in Billy.

  “What is happening here?”

  “We pulled this Yank off’n a work train that went by a while ago, sir. We were preparing—” Black Suit swallowed, nervously eyeing his comrades.

  “To execute the prisoner?” the officer prompted, quieting his dancing horse with a few quick pats.

  Black Suit flushed, said faintly, “Yes, sir.”

  “That is against the rules of civilized warfare, and you know it. No matter what calumnies the Yankee newspapers print about us, we do not engage in murder. You will pay a penalty for this.”

  Frightened now, Black Suit hastily holstered his dragoon pistol. Billy’s heartbeat slowed. “Lower your hands,” the officer said to him. Billy obeyed. “Give me your name and unit, please.”

  “Captain William Hazard, Battalion of Engineers, Army of the Potomac.”

  “Well, Captain, you are the prisoner of the Partisan Rangers.”

  Billy caught his breath. “Are you—?”

  Gauntlet touched hat brim. “Major John Mosby. At your service.” He suppressed a smile. “Pulled you off a train, did they? Well, at least you’re in one piece. I will make arrangements to have you transported to the Richmond prison for Union officers.”

  Mosby’s unexpected arrival had left Billy elated and befuddled—so thankful he hadn’t stopped to think of the consequences of a reprieve. Prison was better than death, but not much; paroles were becoming fewer as the bitterness of the war intensified.

  He should have recognized Mosby at once; after Stuart’s, his plume was the most famous in the Confederacy. Mosby addressed the other man in uniform, a sergeant. “See that he’s fed and not mistreated. We must move on to—”

  “Major?”

  Annoyed, Mosby glanced at Billy. “What is it?”

  “One of my men was shot to death just before I was captured. He’s lying up there in the weeds. Might I ask that he be given a Christian burial?”

  “Why, yes, certainly.” A hard look at Black Suit. “You’re in charge. See that you do it properly.”

  There was no complaint from Black Suit, not even a flicker of resentment in his eyes as Mosby and his party resumed their canter through the woods. One of their number had been left behind to take charge of the prisoner. While that trooper was loosening the saddle girth to rest his horse, Black Suit managed to whisper to Billy.

  “You’re going to Libby Prison. When you see how they treat Yankee boys there, you’ll wish to God I’d pulled that trigger. You’ll wish I’d killed you. Just wait.”

  87

  AUGUST INFECTED RICHMOND WITH soaring temperatures and humidity, with dusty leaves and still air awaiting a great relieving storm that muttered northwest of the Potomac but never seemed to march farther, and with a pervading despair that followed two realizations: the Mississippi was lost; and Gettysburg had not been the quasi-triumph the high command at first pretended it was. One clear signal was the state of the trade in illegal currency. A Yankee greenback dollar, of which there were thousands in circulation, cost two Confederate dollars before the debacle in Pennsylvania. Now it cost four.

  Vicksburg spilled thousands of new captives into the already overcrowded camps and warehouse prisons. Gettysburg sent thousands of new wounded to the overtaxed hospitals. Huntoon absorbed this marginally as he scratched away at work he no longer cared about. Memminger had assigned him the odious task of preparing lists of those business establishments, nearly numberless, engaged in printing and distributing illegal shinplasters.

  The Confederacy had no silver for small coins, so the Treasury had authorized states, cities, and selected railroads to issue paper, in denominations from five to fifty cents, for change-making. But hundreds of other businesses took up the idea, and the Confederacy was now suffering a plague of shinplasters more numerous than Biblical frogs and locusts. Huntoon wrote list after list—grogshops, greengrocers, taprooms, short-line railroads. This morning he was copying out names provided by Treasury informants in Florida and Mississippi—hateful work onto which his sweat fell as he hunched over it, blotting it like tears.

  What this government did no longer mattered to him. But a new Confederacy—that was tantalizing, that mesmerized him. He lay awake nights thinking about it. Spent long periods daydreaming about it at his desk, until some superior reprimanded him. Finally, one hot noontime, he startled his drone colleagues by seizing his hat and dashing from the office, a kind of crazed exaltation on his face.

  He had already made inquiries in saloons. Most barkeeps were well acquainted with Powell, and Huntoon soon learned the Georgian’s address. He refused to ask Ashton, for fear she would reveal that she knew it.

  Huntoon wanted to put some additional questions to Powell. He needed more details, yet at the same time didn’t want to risk offending. So he had delayed a while. Finally, however, his agitated state drove him out of the office that broiling noonday and into a hack.

  “Church Hill,” he called through the roof slot, rapping with his stick for emphasis. “Corner of Twenty-fourth and Franklin.”

  Leaves coated with dust hung motionless over the brick wall. Excited, Huntoon lumbered up the steps and knocked. A minute later he knocked again. At last, the door opened.

  “Powell, I’ve decided—”

  “What in hell are you doing here?” Powell demanded, giving a yank to tighten the belt of his emerald velvet dressing g
own. The vee of flesh showing between his lapels was glittery with sweat.

  St. John’s Church began to ring the half-hour. Queasy, Huntoon felt that the bell was sounding a knell for his opportunity. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

  “But you have. I’m extremely busy.”

  Huntoon blinked, overcome with fright. “Please accept my apology. I came only because you said you wanted my decision promptly. I made it this morning.” A swift look down the street. Then he thought he heard some unseen person stirring behind the door.

  “All right, tell me.”

  “I—I want to join, if you’ll have me.”

  Some of the wrath left Powell’s face. “Of course. That’s excellent news.”

  “May we talk about particulars of when and how—?”

  “Not now. I’ll be in touch.” Then, seeing Huntoon react unfavorably to his curtness, Powell smiled. “Very soon. I would be pleased to do it today, but unfortunately I have many other affairs that demand attention. I’m very glad you’re with us, James. We need a man of courage and vision in the new Treasury. You’ll hear from me in a day or two, I promise.”

  He closed the door. Huntoon was left in the heat, his heavy coat binding his fat body and his feelings hurt. Of course he had called without an appointment, and Southerners resented such discourtesies. He had no right to harbor resentment, though he did wonder what private matter required Powell to wear a dressing gown in the middle of the day. Huntoon had a suspicion too painful to entertain for very long.

  As he went in search of a hack to return him to Capitol Square, he did an emotional turnabout. Powell became the injured party, he the offending one. His mind executed the reversal because he needed to feel himself genuinely a part of Lamar Powell’s plan.

  And what he wanted most of all was to tell his wife of his brave decision.

  “Near thing,” Powell said in the foyer, slipping out of the hot velvet robe and hooking it over his shoulder by one finger. It was the closest he had come in many a year to being surprised by a cuckolded husband, and it showed in the tightness of his features. Huntoon waddled away up the sidewalk, and Ashton, buck naked, uncovered her mouth and succumbed to the laughter she had struggled to control while she was hidden behind the door.

  “You nearly gave us away.”

  “But—I had to listen, Lamar.” She laughed so hard tears came. “It was—so delicious—my husband on one side of the door—my lover on the other—” She held her sides; her breasts shook.

  “I didn’t hear you sneak down here while I was answering the door. Seeing you damn near gave me a seizure.” He clamped her chin in his left hand and lifted it swiftly, roughly. “Don’t ever do such a thing again.”

  Smile fading: “No, no—I’m sorry—I won’t. But I’m elated that he said yes. He’s been pondering the decision for days. He hasn’t said a word to me, but I could tell it’s been on his mind.” She took hold of his arm. “You’re pleased, aren’t you? Now we have him where we can watch him.”

  “And we don’t want him to change his mind. So you must allay any lingering doubts he may have. Make him very proud of his decision by rewarding him.” He squeezed her chin; a spasm at the corners of her mouth showed there was pain. “Do you understand, my dear?”

  “Yes. Yes. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “As always.” He let go of her. The imprint of his fingers faded. Smiling, he gave her cheek a brief, paternal kiss. “That’s why I love you.”

  That evening, after dismissing the servants and closing the dining-room doors, Huntoon cleared his throat in a way that signaled a pronouncement. Except for a slight scarring of the wallpaper, the room showed no evidence of Cooper’s visit. New legs had been installed on the table; new jasperware filled the repaired cabinet.

  She felt she must be simpering as she said, “James, what is it? You’re so excited—”

  “With good reason. Recently I’ve had some—private conversations with Mr. Lamar Powell—” He pushed aside the tureen of steaming fish bisque, jumped up. “Oh, I can’t sit—” He rushed to her end of the table. “He approached me with the most astonishing scheme, Ashton—a proposal I have accepted because I feel it’s my patriotic duty, because I believe it’s morally right, and also because I think it will work to our very great benefit.”

  “Dear me,” she murmured, trying for precisely the right blend of surprise and reservation. “Does he want money for another vessel?”

  “God, no, nothing so mundane. I will tell you what it is, but you must prepare yourself. Open your mind. Not hesitate to think, well, daringly. Unconventionally. Sweetheart—Mr. Powell and some associates I have not met as yet intend to establish—” he gripped her arm, bent down beside her chair “—a new Confederate state.”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t raise your voice. You heard me correctly. A new Confederacy. Let me tell you about it.”

  Giggling inside, Ashton frowned as he pulled a chair from the corner and sat beside her. He fondled her hand, explaining, revealing, persuading while she fluttered her eyelashes to simulate astonishment, pressed a hand to her breast, and at appropriate intervals gasped. Altogether, in her own estimation, she gave a splendid performance—up to and including the dramatic rush of her palm to her open mouth when he first said the word assassination.

  He took half an hour to pour it all out. The fish bisque had congealed by the time he asked, “Now tell me—did I act improperly? I’ve withheld none of the facts, including my strong desire to join Powell’s group. I want to be his new secretary of the treasury, and I believe that’s possible. The Southwest is a long way from our home state, but think of the rewards when we establish a new government. We’ll command the attention—the respect—of the entire world.”

  “I am thinking of that. It’s just a trifle—well—overwhelming.”

  “But you aren’t furious with me?”

  “James—James!” She began to press little kisses on his flabby face. “Of course not. I’m thrilled by your vision—proud of your courage—gratified to see you exhibit such intelligence and initiative. I’ve always known you had both qualities, but I also know that working in Richmond has been a miserable, frustrating experience. I’m so happy to learn it hasn’t robbed you of your ambition—”

  “The principal reason for my ambition is you, Ashton. I want you to be one of the most important women in the new Confederacy.”

  “Oh, darling—” Steeling herself, she squeezed his slippery face between her palms, kissed him, and pushed her tongue into his mouth. He uttered a groan as she dropped her hand to his right thigh. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Someone knocked softly—the kitchen, wondering about the overly long soup course. Ashton smoothed her gown, glanced into Huntoon’s calf eyes—she knew what was inevitable tonight—and trilled, “Come in, Delia.”

  Huntoon returned to his place. But they had scarcely finished their cups of tasteless fruit ice when he was at her side again, pawing her dress and begging her to go to the bedroom. She pretended to be as breathless as he was, meekly offering her hand for him to lead her.

  Undressed, she cooed over his body and manipulated him to a mammoth erection—that was something new, anyway; she couldn’t wait to tell Lamar.

  North of Richmond was a wayside inn whose faded paint had given the hamlet of Yellow Tavern its name. Some half a mile farther on, at the end of a deserted lane running west from Telegraph Road, rose a large grove of trees. Light from a heat-hazed moon fell all around the grove, illuminating the landscape dimly. But under the trees, where two men talked, neither could see the other.

  Over soft sounds of horses moving restlessly, one said, “I must tell you for the good of all of us that you’ve spoken too freely, too often. They say even that damned Lafayette Baker’s heard about us.”

  “Well, so be it. Men from my state make no secret of their convictions. Governor Brown doesn’t, and neither do I.”

  “But you’ve drawn attention to yourself.
Therefore maybe to the rest of us.”

  “Oh, I doubt that one more tale of conspiracy will be given much credence—there are so many. Besides, I’ve no other way to recruit men with the right sort of nerve. I can only put out a baited line and wait. It worked with you.”

  Grudgingly: “True.”

  “Are we in any immediate danger?”

  “I don’t think so. Davis heard some of the talk and sent a letter ordering the general to investigate. I volunteered for the assignment—patriotic zeal, loathing for traitors—the usual claptrap.”

  “Clever of you. Now you can block the inquiry?”

  “Slow it down,” the other corrected. “We don’t have as much time as we did before.”

  “We’ll move faster. Within a few months, Jeff Davis will be dead and gone.”

  “If he isn’t, the rest of us will be.”

  “And we’ll be enjoying the sunshine and free air of the Southwest. Meanwhile—I deeply appreciate the warning.”

  “I know it’s a long ride out here, but it’s the safest spot I could think of, and I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Absolutely. My thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

  They clasped hands, bid each other good night, and turned their horses in opposite directions. Wan moonlight brushed the face of Lamar Powell as he cantered from one side of the grove and the benign features of the agent of the provost marshal, Israel Quincy, on the other.

  88

  LIBBY & SON

  Ship Chandlers & Grocers

  PRODDED OUT OF THE covered wagon at musket point, Billy saw the sign that had identified the block-square structure when it was a warehouse instead of a prison. Some three dozen officers climbed from Billy’s wagon and the two behind. Like the others, Billy was exhausted, hungry, and, above all, nervous.