Love and War: The North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  To reach Libby Prison, the wagons had passed through a neighborhood of commercial buildings and vacant lots. Approaching, Billy first noticed the uniformed guards posted at intervals around the brick building.

  The prison looked harsh in the morning light. The wagons had parked on the lower side, where the building was four stories high. On the opposite side, at the top of the sloping street, it was three. The warning said to be carved above one of its doors was known throughout the Union Army: Abandon all hope who enter here.

  “Form up, form up in single file,” a bored sergeant said, pushing some of the prisoners, gigging others with his musket. Most of the captives were quietly resolute about their predicament. Inevitably, one or two had insisted on cracking jokes during the ride to Richmond in a filthy freight car. But once the train arrived in the enemy capital, the jokes stopped. In the entire lot, only one prisoner, a portly captain of artillery two or three years older than Billy, seemed genuinely broken by the experience; his eyes were moist as he took his place in line.

  “Look there,” an officer said, pointing to a barge pulling away from a pier not far from the prison. All the open space on deck was filled by emaciated men in dirty blue uniforms. On the roof of the deckhouse, a white cloth hung from a staff. The barge was headed downriver.

  Noticing the prisoners watching, a guard said, “Flag-of-truce boat. Just took a load of you boys out of this yere building for exchange. Not many of them boats leavin’ these days. Be a long time ’fore any of you take the trip. Now march.”

  As they passed through a doorway, Billy searched for the famous inscription and didn’t see it; but Libby had many entrances. They shuffled up creaking stairs. Men began to cough because of the odors: fish, tobacco, something acrid.

  “What the hell’s that stink?”

  The prisoner was answered by a sarcastic guard. “Burnin’ tar. You Yanks smell so putrid, we got to fumigate the place reg’lar.”

  Shuffling in line, trying to remember Brett, remember all his many reasons for clinging to hope, Billy reached a large, unfurnished room with high slot windows that admitted only a little daylight. There a private interrogated each prisoner, inscribing name, rank, and unit into a copybook. Then he turned them over to a corporal who stood beneath a window, hands locked behind his back in the rest position. The sight of the stiff-backed noncom made Billy’s gut quiver.

  “Line up—eight men to a rank—starting here.”

  The corporal was a boy, pink-faced, wholesome-looking, with blond curls and eyes as brilliant as an October sky. When the prisoners had formed their ranks—Billy was in the second one—the corporal strode to a spot in front of them.

  “I am Corporal Clyde Vesey, charged with welcoming you gentlemen to Libby Prison, of whose hospitality you have no doubt heard. You will now strip to the skin so Private Murch and I may conduct a search for money and any other illegal material you may be carrying.”

  Shirts came off, trousers dropped; dirty hands worked the buttons on sweaty suits of underwear. There were no complaints; guards on the prison train had warned them about a search, saying that whether they were allowed to keep money or personal items frequently depended on the mood of the soldiers doing the searching. Seeing Vesey’s blue eyes and listening to his speech, Billy was not encouraged.

  “Open your mouth,” Vesey snapped to a major in the front row. The major objected. Vesey backhanded his face twice, hard. Two places to the left, the fat artillery captain let out an audible cry of dismay.

  “Open,” Vesey repeated. The furious major obeyed. Vesey reached in and withdrew a small paper tube, spittle-covered, from its hiding place next to the upper gum. Vesey unrolled the ten-dollar note, wiped it on his blouse, tucked it away and moved on.

  When he reached the artilleryman, Vesey smiled, sensing his weakness. After a routine search of mouth and armpits, he stepped back. “Turn around and spread your backside.”

  “W—what? See here. That isn’t decent or—”

  Vesey smiled a sweet smile, interrupting. “You have nothing to say about what’s decent or indecent in Libby Prison. Such decisions are in the hands of the warden, Lieutenant Turner, and those of us privileged to serve him.” His hand flew up, seizing the captain’s ear and twisting. The artilleryman shrieked like a girl.

  Vesey smiled. “Turn around and grab your backside and spread it.”

  Enraged looks passed between some of the prisoners, Billy being one of them. Red-faced, the artilleryman turned to face the rank behind him and reached for his buttocks. Billy recalled he had heard about the warden of Libby—a martinet who had resigned from the Academy in his plebe year, just before Sumter fell.

  Vesey let the artilleryman stand in that embarrassing position for fifteen seconds—twenty—thirty. The captain began to shake from strain. Vesey reached around and slapped the side of his face. The captain squealed and fell forward. Men in the next rank pushed him back. The captain started to cry. Billy took a half-step forward.

  Vesey said to him: “Oh, I wouldn’t interfere. It’ll go hard with you later.”

  Billy hesitated, then stepped back to his place. The search went on. Billy’s mouth grew dry as the corporal moved along the second row. He bent to rummage through the clothing piled beside Billy’s bare feet.

  “What’s this?” Vesey said, pleased. From Billy’s jacket he pulled the copybook.

  “That’s my journal,” Billy said. “It’s personal.”

  Vesey stood and slowly waved the copybook an inch from Billy’s nose. “Nothing is personal in Libby unless we declare it so. This is a book. Regular churchgoing has taught me to distrust books, especially novels, and all those who read them. It’s my Christian duty not merely to hold you men as prisoners, but to reform your errant ways. ‘I will take you from among the heathen,’ says the prophet Ezekiel. That’s just what you Yankees are, heathen. Here’s a fine example. You will just have to get along without your godless books.”

  He’s mad, Billy thought, filled with dread. “Murch?” Vesey flung the copybook to the other soldier, who caught and pocketed it. After a fleeting smile at Billy, Vesey stepped to the next man.

  The search continued. Billy’s legs started to ache. Finally Vesey finished and returned to the front, hands locked at the small of his back again. At last we can get out of here and sit down, Billy thought.

  “It is now my duty and privilege to give you gentlemen some moral instruction.” Vesey spread his feet, planting them solidly. One officer swore. Vesey glared. The artilleryman was still weeping softly. “The instruction concerns your status in this prison. As I said to the man with the concealed copybook, we don’t consider you merely enemies; we consider you heathen. You—” he lunged forward suddenly, grabbing the fat artilleryman by the hair “—pay attention when I speak.” He twisted the hair. The captain’s flabby white breasts shook as he struggled to control his sobbing. Breathing loudly through his open mouth, Vesey stepped back, his clean pink face stiff with anger.

  “Each of you mark this well. You are no longer officers. You are no longer gentlemen. Your status here is that of a nigger. No, I’m too generous. You are lower than niggers, and you will learn to feel that—sleep and eat that—breathe that every minute you are in my care. Now—”

  A long inhalation. Then he smiled.

  “Show me that you understand what I just told you. Show me what you are. Get down on your knees.”

  “What the hell—?” Billy growled. Behind him, another officer said, “You fucking reb ape—”

  “Murch?” Vesey gestured. Using his side arm, the private hit the outspoken officer in the back of the head. The man staggered. A second blow laid him on his side, barely conscious.

  Vesey smiled again. “I said,” he murmured, “kneel down. Heathen niggers. Kneel—down.”

  The artillery captain dropped first, panting. Someone cursed him. Vesey dashed to the third row and hit the offender, then seized his shoulder and forced him to his knees. Anxious looks flashed between th
e prisoners, tired men who wanted to save themselves from this lunatic. Slowly, one by one, they knelt, until just three naked officers remained standing. Vesey studied the trio and walked to the nearest—Billy.

  “Kneel down,” Vesey purred, smiling broadly and fixing him with those October eyes.

  Heart hammering, Billy said, “I demand that this group of prisoners be treated according to the rules of war. The rules your superior surely understands even if you do no—”

  He saw the hand flying toward his face, tried to jerk aside but was slowed by his fatigue. The open-handed blow hurt more than he anticipated. He lurched sideways, almost fell.

  “I told you before. There are no rules here but the ones I make. Get down.”

  He dug immaculate fingernails into Billy’s bare shoulder. “Jesus,” Billy said, tears in his eyes. Vesey’s nails broke skin; blood oozed as he dug deeper.

  “Now you blaspheme. Get down!”

  Wanting to stay on his feet, Billy felt his legs giving out. His head began to vibrate like some faulty part in a machine. He clenched his teeth, resisting the steady downward pressure—

  Unexpectedly, Vesey pulled. The shift unbalanced Billy, and he tumbled over, knees whacking the floor, bare palms skidding along it; a long splinter drove into his right hand.

  He raised his head and saw the corporal turn away. “Murch?”

  “Sir?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Main. William Main. Engineers.”

  “Thank you. I want to be certain to remember that,” Vesey said through lips so tight with rage they had lost all color.

  His eyes shifted to the two other officers still standing. First one, then the other, knelt down. “Good,” Vesey said.

  Billy scrambled up on his haunches. Blood leaked along his forearm from the wounds left by Vesey’s nails. He watched the bright October eyes return to him again, marking him.

  That day, just at five, the wind strengthened, the sky blackened, the heat broke under an assault of raging rain, pelting hail, thunder loud as massed field guns. Orry started across the capitol rotunda as the storm burst, and, with no gas jets lit as yet, found himself in near-darkness. He blundered into another officer, stepped back, astonished.

  “George? I didn’t know you were in Richmond.”

  “Yes,” said his old friend Pickett in a peculiar, detached voice. Pickett’s long hair was uncombed, his eyes ringed by shadows. “Yes, for a while—I’m temporarily detached. Good to see you. We must get together,” he said over his shoulder as he hurried into the dark. Thunder tremors vibrated the marble floor.

  He didn’t recognize me. What’s wrong with him?

  But Orry thought he knew. He had heard the stories. Once so courtly and light-hearted, Pickett had gone up Cemetery Hill, leading his boys to a slaughter. He had come down a ruined and a haunted man. Orry stood motionless in the center of the rotunda. The whole building shook, as if the elements wanted to tear it apart.

  On the same day, in Washington, George received a bedraggled envelope forwarded by means of a three-cent stamp added at Lehigh Station. So far as he could tell, the envelope bore no other franking. Curious. He opened it, unfolded the letter, saw the signature, and whooped.

  Not only was Orry in Richmond, he was with Madeline, who was now his wife. George shook his head in amazement as he read on through the letter obviously sent to Pennsylvania by illegal courier. Fate had ironically shunted the two friends along similar paths. Like George, he could barely tolerate most of his war department duties.

  In spite of the letter’s tone of melancholy, it brought a smile whenever George read it. And he read it, aloud to Constance and silently to himself, many times before he put it away with his permanent keepsakes.

  None of the drinkers in the hotel bar laughed; few raised their voices above a mutter. What was there to be cheerful about? Not even the weather. The heat wave had broken, but relief had come with a storm so fierce it sounded as if it might level all of Richmond.

  Trying to shut out the voices of discontent all around him, Lamar Powell worked on a draft of a letter to the foreman of the Mexican Mine. He had chosen a table in a back corner for privacy and was writing to advise the mine foreman that sometime within the next twelve months he would personally appear at the site to take charge.

  When he was satisfied with the wording, he began to consider ways to get the letter out of the Confederacy. He distrusted the illegal mail couriers who operated between here and Washington; they were a duplicitous lot, sometimes dumping a pouch of letters into some gully or creek and disappearing with their meager profits. Still, they represented the fastest and most direct means of sending mail across enemy lines. Perhaps he should use a courier but send a copy of the letter by another route. To Bermuda, via Wilmington. That way—

  A fraction late, he heard the wet boots squeaking. He quickly folded the draft and glanced at the man whose shadow had fallen on the table. The man was fat, huge, his fusty suit large as a tent. He had dark hair, sly eyes, a conspiratorial air. He licked his lips.

  “Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Lamar Powell?”

  Powell wished that he had brought his four-barrel Sharps tonight. Could this gross fellow be some spy of Winder’s on the prowl for critics of the President?

  “What do you want?” Powell retorted.

  Put off by the nonanswer, the stranger cleared his throat. “You were pointed out as Mr. Powell. I’ve been searching for you for several days. I am interested in, ah, certain of your plans. May I sit down and explain? Oh, forgive me—my name is Captain Bellingham.”

  That night, Bent celebrated by drinking himself into a stupor in his rooming house. Mr. Lamar Powell was shrewd. He had not uttered so much as a syllable to confirm his part in any conspiracy against the government, nor indeed given the slightest indication that such a conspiracy existed. Yet by glance and inflection and gesture, he left no doubt. He was involved, and he could use trustworthy recruits—especially a Maryland-born Southern sympathizer lately wounded in service with General Longstreet.

  Not only had it been necessary for Bent to tell those lies, but he had been required to state some fundamental beliefs—extremely risky, but vital if he was to convince Powell of his sincerity. He said he hated to see the South misruled, the war lost, the great principles sullied by King Jeff the First. He wanted the dictator removed, if not by the ballot, then by other means.

  Powell had listened, then made a small concession. After further reflection on the captain’s story, he would be in touch at the address the captain had provided, if—if—there was any reason for contact. He didn’t state that there would be, but his manner clearly suggested it.

  Powell questioned him hard as to how and where he had heard Powell’s name. Bent refused to answer. Being stubborn on that point was a risk, of course. Yet if Powell deemed him too pliable, he might not want his services. So Bent dug in and repeatedly said no, he could reveal nothing about his sources.

  He left Powell in the hotel bar, got drunk in his rooming house, and settled down to wait. A week, a month—whatever it took. Meantime, he had another little scheme to occupy him now that he was in the same city as Orry Main. Bent’s presence was unknown to him. He could take him by surprise.

  Ashton left the house on Grace Street at half past six the next evening. The air felt sharply cooler, though ugly black clouds continued to roll out of the northwest. The storm weather had persisted a long time, but the relief was welcome.

  Tugging on her gloves, she hurried down the long front stoop. She was so busy anticipating her evening with Powell that she failed to see the man half concealed behind one of the large brick pillars at the foot of the steps. He hurled himself in front of her.

  “Mrs. Huntoon?”

  “How dare you startle me that—oh!” She clutched her hat in the stiff wind, recognizing him: a huge heap of dark broadcloth, a fat face beneath a broad-brimmed hat. He had called on her once before, though his name eluded her. He carried a
n oilskin tube under his arm.

  “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, darting looks at the house. “Is there some spot close by where we might hold a private conversation?”

  “Your name again?”

  “Captain Erasmus Bellingham.”

  “That’s right. General Longstreet’s corps.”

  “The Invalid Corps now, I’m afraid,” Bent replied with his most soulful expression. “I am out of the army.”

  “When you called the first time, you said you were a friend of my brother’s.”

  “If I left that impression, I regret it. I am not a friend, merely an acquaintance. On that occasion you stated that your feelings toward Colonel Main were—may we say—less than cordial? That is why I came back tonight—my first opportunity to do so since my release from Chimborazo Hospital.”

  “Captain, I am on my way somewhere, and I’m late. Come to the point.”

  Tap-tap went his fingers, plump white sausages, on the oilskin tube. “I have a painting here. I should like to show it to you, that’s all. I am not trying to sell it, Mrs. Huntoon—I wouldn’t part with it. But I think you will find it of great interest all the same.”

  That same evening, Charles reached Barclay’s Farm. He had invited Jim Pickles to come along, explaining en route that he was romantically involved with the widow Barclay. Jim whooped and hollered and waved his hat, which now had a turkey feather stuck in the band; he was imitating Stuart but couldn’t find an ostrich plume. Jim thought what Charles had said was fine news, though, curiously, Charles silently questioned his own good sense even as he related how he felt.

  Gus hugged and kissed him warmly, and when she went out to supervise the killing of two hens for supper, Jim nudged his fellow scout. “You’re a lucky gent, Charlie. She’s a dandy.” Charles continued to puff his cob pipe in silence and toast his bare feet at the kitchen hearth; the rain through which they had ridden was hard and cold.

  Supper was cheerful and boisterous for a while. But talk of the war couldn’t be avoided. Everyone expected a new siege of Charleston to begin soon. In the West, Bragg was being pressed by Rosecrans. Brave Morgan, after a twenty-five-day mounted raid through Kentucky and Indiana, had been captured at Salineville, Ohio, the preceding week. Nothing pleasant or consoling in any of that.