Love and War: The North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  Once, at West Point, Charles had fought bare-knuckled. It was a challenge, a contest—no animosity. After twenty minutes, his opponent, shorter but more experienced and agile, began leaping through his guard time and again to land blows. There had been a point at which every blow hurt exquisitely—and then a sudden crossing into another state in which he could still feel each one but only its weight; he was beyond his own capacity for pain.

  So it was now. He stared down between his scarred boots and thought of all he owed Orry, who had seen something worth saving in a scapegrace boy. Orry had urged him to try for the Academy, had even arranged for a tutor to prepare him for the entrance examinations. Charles loved his tall, slow-spoken cousin. Madeline loved him, too. What would they do?

  “Charles, I am deeply sorry to break tragic news in such a blundering way. Had I understood—”

  A vague wave. “It’s all right. Never mind.”

  After a moment Fitz asked, “Do you have any present plans?”

  “I’m not going to the dead-line camp, that I can promise you. I want to get a pass, head south, and hunt for a remount.”

  “Doubt you’ll find one in all of Virginia.”

  “North Carolina, then.”

  “There, either.”

  A listless shrug. “Maybe General Butler will have an extra. He’s in South Carolina.”

  “So is Cump Sherman.”

  “Yes.” It had no power to alarm him. Nothing did. With a sigh and a stretch of his aching bones—he was falling victim to rheumatism—he rose from the camp chair, then picked up the scrap-and-rag cloak, which by now had developed a fringe from heavy wear. He poked his head through the slit in the center and settled the garment on his shoulders. He could still smell horse on it. He wished that tears were not mysteriously locked up inside him.

  “Thank you for the drink, Fitz. You be careful now that we’re so close to winding things up.”

  Fitz didn’t care for the admission of defeat implicit in the remark. Annoyance flickered in his eyes. But he checked it, shaking Charles’s hand and saying, “Again, my most sincere condolences about your cousin. I’m also sorry you lost the gray.”

  “I’m sorry I lost them both for nothing.”

  “For nothing? How can you say—?”

  Without rancor, Charles interrupted, “Please don’t use that superior-officer tone with me, Fitz. We fought for nothing. We lost family, friends—hundreds of thousands of good men—for what? We never had a chance. The best men in Dixie said so, but no one listened. It’s a pity.”

  The friend insisted on being the general. “That may be true. But it remains every Southerner’s sacred duty—”

  “Come on, Fitz. There’s nothing sacred about killing someone. Have you taken a close look at a dead body lately? Or a dead horse? It’s goddamn near blasphemy, that’s what it is.”

  “Nevertheless, duty demands—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll do my duty. I’ll do my fucking duty until your uncle or Davis or someone with sense realizes it’s time to run up the surrender flag and stop the dying. But there’s no way you can make me feel good or noble about it. Good evening. Sir.”

  Two nights later, on foot, he reached the contested Weldon Railroad line south of Petersburg. A raggedy figure with a revolver on his hip, the oilskin-wrapped light cavalry sword tucked under his arm and a piece of cigar smoldering between clenched teeth, he climbed aboard a slow-moving freight car. Shells had ripped two huge holes in the car, windows on the moonlit countryside and the bitter white stars above. He wasn’t interested in scenic views. They could blow up the whole state of Virginia for all he cared. They damn near had.

  Ratlike stirrings and rustlings from the head end told him there were others in the southbound car. They might have passes; they might be deserters. He was indifferent.

  He stood in the open door as the train chugged slowly through a way station where army signalmen waved dim lanterns at several switch points. He smoked his cigar to a stub and threw it away. Night air bathed him, cold as he felt inside.

  The fringe of his rag cape fluttered. One of the boys huddled in a front corner thought he should speak to the new passenger. Then he got a look at the fellow’s bearded face by the light of a waving lantern and thought again.

  121

  ASHTON ACHED FROM SLEEPING in strange beds and straining to avoid contact with her husband’s lardlike body beside her. How sick she was of all the dissembling—with James and with strangers who continually asked about their accents.

  “Why, yes, sir—yes, madam—we are Southerners of a sort. We are Kentuckians, but of the loyal Union breed.”

  How galling to repeat that lie over and over, to be forced to endure the graceless remarks and cramped quarters offered by inn and hotel keepers along the route of their long, seemingly endless pilgrimage. With their forged papers, they had traveled from Montreal to Windsor and Detroit, then on to Chicago, and now, in early February, to St. Louis, where their paths would diverge. Powell and her husband would head due west on the overland stage; she was to take the twice-weekly service for Santa Fe.

  On the afternoon before her departure, Powell sensed Ashton’s malaise and risked inviting her for a walk on the levee while Huntoon napped, Ashton’s husband had been in a stupor all day, having consumed far too much bourbon the night before.

  “I’m sorry we’re forced to part for a while,” Powell said. Without touching, they strolled by a gang of noisy, laughing stevedores; the black men were putting cargo aboard a river steamer. “I know the journey has been difficult.”

  “Vile.” Ashton jutted her lower lip. “I have no words to describe how sick I am of unclean beds and cheap food.”

  Assuming that no one on the busy river front could identify them, Powell took her hand and slipped it around his left arm. Their squalid hotel lay two blocks behind, and Huntoon had been asleep when they left.

  “I understand,” Powell murmured. “And some hard days are still ahead.” He reached over to caress her right hand. She wondered why that produced such an uneasy feeling.

  The back of her neck itched, too. But then, she was presently passing through those few days that were womankind’s monthly burden; she had learned to suffer debilitating aches and peculiar moods as part of the experience.

  “Once those are behind us, we can begin to build our enclave for people of true merit. Those who believe in the only genuine aristocracy—that of money and property. No egalitarians or negrophiles need apply.”

  She didn’t smile; nothing was amusing today. “I really don’t relish going on by myself.”

  “You will be perfectly safe in the coach. You have emergency funds—”

  “That isn’t the point. It’s another long, miserable trip.”

  He flared. “Do you think mine will be easier? To the contrary. In Virginia City, I must load two wagons with secret cargo—remaining constantly on watch for thieves all the while. Then I must bring those wagons several hundreds of miles to the New Mexico Territory, through a wilderness infested with hostile savages. If I consider the potential rewards worthy of such risk, I should think you could curb your complaints about a relatively tame ride in a stagecoach.”

  Pain cramped her middle abruptly; the corners of her mouth whitened. A crude plainsman swaggered by, running his eyes over her bosom. The greasy fringe of his hide shirt brushed her arm. She felt as though a leper had touched her.

  And Powell was still glaring. Everything angered him lately; he, too, must be feeling great strain. Realizing that moderated Ashton’s cross feelings.

  “Yes, you’re right—I apologize.” She lowered her head briefly to acknowledge his authority. “I just don’t think you understand what a trial it’s been to get in bed with James night after night and wish it were you.”

  A whistle sounded from a packet churning upstream in the broad river. “Never forget what I said on the Royal Albert. James is necessary. James is”—a pointed look—“a good soldier.”

  Some
color appeared in her face, which had grown pale over the winter and gaunt because she had refused so much bad food. She had quite forgotten the military metaphor.

  Powell’s eyes brightened. Sometimes, seeing that particular glint in them, Ashton questioned whether her lover was altogether sane. Not that it mattered; a conventional mind was not an attribute of a man with epic dreams.

  “I also remind you,” he continued softly, “that it’s a very long way from the Comstock to our destination. With miles of waterless waste to traverse, and the Indian threat, something could happen to any of the soldiers accompanying me.”

  She laughed then, feeling relieved, buoyant in spite of her feminine complaint. She did experience a twinge of pity for James. Poor soldier; about to start his last campaign. But it was brief.

  Half a block away, hidden in shadow by the high wall of a mercantile building, Huntoon shook his head, reached under his spectacles with a kerchief, and vigorously wiped each eye. He then continued toward the river, following his wife and Powell until they disappeared behind a pyramid of casks.

  Tears welled again. He blinked them away, dazed and angry. This was no surprise. He had suspected for more than a year and, since rejoining Powell, had caught more than one furtive glance between the lovers.

  He didn’t blame Lamar, whom he still advised. He blamed the bitch he had married. He had pretended to nap, then came skulking after them, because he wanted absolute proof, which he had obtained by spying. He must now write a second letter, telling her about the first one.

  He faced about and walked swiftly back to the cheap hotel where they were staying. His expression was so odd—maniacal—that two blanket-wrapped Indians seated against the wheel of a wagon watched him long after he sped by.

  In the clamor before departure, Huntoon kissed Ashton’s cheek, then pressed a sealed envelope into her hand. Passengers were already boarding the elegant egg-shaped Abbot-Downing coach that rested on wide, thick leather thorough braces. The manufacturers in Concord, New Hampshire, had painted it to order—lustrous dark blue—and decorated the doors with identical sentimental portraits of a beautiful girl admiring a dove on the back of her hand. Ashton cared less for aesthetics than for the availability of good seats, all of which would soon be taken. Crossly, she said, “What is this?”

  “Just some—personal sentiments.” His smile was limp; he avoided her eye. “If anything should happen to me, open it. But not before. You must swear you’ll honor that request, Ashton.”

  Anything to humor the fat fool and get aboard. “Of course, darling. I swear.”

  She presented her cheek for a parting kiss. Huntoon buried his head on her shoulder, giving her a chance to cast a final longing look at Powell, very elegant and ebullient this morning. He twirled his stick and regarded the loving couple from a polite distance.

  The coach driver poked his head into the vehicle while Ashton was engaged in her prolonged farewell. He had a big fan-shaped beard, white, and a beaded vest that looked as if it had once been rinsed in vegetable soup.

  “How many of you folks rid in a Concord ’fore this?” Only one hand went up. “Wal, she’s mighty comfortable, as you’ll soon find out. But if you’re travelin’ the whole way to Santa Fe, I got to warn you that we hit some mighty twisty roads. Gits so bad some places, the horses kin eat out of the luggage boot.”

  Having delivered his standard joke for tourists, he tipped his hat, climbed to the box, and began separating the various reins of the four-mustang hitch.

  Impatiently, Ashton pushed Huntoon away. “I must go.”

  “Godspeed, my love,” he said, handing her into the coach. She managed to squeeze into the last place on the rear-facing front seat, leaving two laggards, a middle-aged drover in poor but clean clothes and a sleazy drummer with a sample case, to take the hard drop seats in the middle.

  She examined the envelope. He had written Ashton on the front and closed it with three large drops of wax. He certainly did want his request honored if he sealed it that carefully. She dropped the letter in her reticule and then, despite the prospect of the rough roads, foul food, and verminous sleeping accommodations en route, began to feel quite cheerful. She suspected it wouldn’t be long before circumstances required her to open the letter.

  Handlers flung the last valises in the boot and lashed down the tarpaulin. The dispatcher blew a final sour call on his dented trumpet. Lamar Powell linked his arm with Huntoon’s and waved with his lacquered stick.

  Ashton waved back merrily. From Powell’s jaunty air and confident smile, she knew she was absolutely right about the letter.

  On several occasions George had reason to step down into a rifle pit or enter a bombproof. Each time the muck and stench nearly made him sick. Along the lines he frequently saw ears plugged with wadding, protection against the noise of the siege guns. He saw illness, boredom, fear all stewed together, with the dirt of Virginia sprinkled on for garnish. If the filth and squalor were this bad on the Union side, what must conditions be like on Orry’s? And if this was Professor Mahan’s new style warfare, he pitied his son’s generation and those beyond.

  The siege wore away men’s sanity and decency. Occasionally he heard reports of acts of friendliness between those on opposing sides; some trading of coffee, tobacco, newspapers. But most of the time, only two things passed between the facing enemies: small-arms fire and vicious taunts. He was glad he had joined the Military Railroad Corps. He doubted he could have withstood a post on the line—the responsibility for ordering seventeen-year-olds to picket duty in the contested, shell-pocked strip between the rifle pits, there perhaps to die.

  A morning in January found him underneath a trestle spanning a gully on the City Point line. He was surveying repairs his crew had made on one of the trusses. Well satisfied, he suddenly noticed the icicles along the edge of the trestle. They were dripping.

  “So,” he muttered to himself. The winter was ending. Maybe the spring would bring a surrender. He prayed that would be the case. He had come to hate the regular letters from Wotherspoon, cheerfully reporting the enormous profits Hazard’s was still earning from war production. The bank was doing equally well.

  Above him, mauls rapped steadily. His head started to ache. He climbed the muddy side of the gully, shielding his eyes against the sunshine till he found the man he wanted.

  “Scow? I’m going over to that creek for a drink. Be right back.”

  “Good enough, Major,” the black said to George’s retreating back.

  George unhooked his tin cup from his belt, using his other hand to loosen the flap of his holster. The creek, out of sight of the rail line, meandered within a few hundred yards of the Confederate salient. But it was Sunday—early—so he didn’t anticipate any danger.

  Patches of snow were melting and shrinking on both sides of the creek. The water rushed with a frothy, springlike sound. George thought he heard a suspicious noise in thick woods on the far side, so he waited behind a big maple for a moment or two. Seeing nothing, he moved down the bank, there squatting to dip his cup. He had it at his mouth when a man stepped from behind a tree on the other side.

  George dropped the cup, spilling the water. His hand flew toward his side arm. The reb, in a kepi and torn butternut coat, swiftly raised his right hand, palm outward.

  “Hold on, Billy. All I want is a drink, like you.”

  Holding his breath, George remained crouched with his hand near his revolver. The reb was about his age, though considerably taller, with a sickly mien enhanced by raw sores on his close-shaven white cheeks. The reb held his rifle carelessly, the barrel pointed toward the sky.

  “Just a drink?” The reb nodded. “Here.” George picked up his cup and tossed it across the creek. The impulse was so sudden he didn’t quite understand it.

  “Thank you very much.” The reb walked, or, rather, limped, down to the water’s edge. Shooting one more swift glance at his enemy—the reb’s eyes were greenish, like a cat’s, George observed—he laid his rifle
on the ground. He crouched, dipped the cup, whirled it around to rinse it, threw the contents out, and refilled it to the brim. George smiled a little.

  Loudly, greedily, the reb drank. The thudding mauls of the work crew seemed miles away. If this turned out to be some kind of ambush—more men lurking in the trees—George doubted he would survive it. Unexpectedly, that served to relax him. He pushed his forage cap back while trying to spot an insignia or any indication of rank on the reb’s uniform. He couldn’t. He assumed the man was a picket.

  Suddenly, flashing in the sun, the cup came sailing back. “Thank you once again, Billy.” George caught the cup, dipped it, and drank. The reb stood up and fastidiously wiped his lips with one finger. “Where is your home?”

  Rising, too, George hooked the cup on his belt again. “Pennsylvania.”

  “Oh. I was hoping it might be Indiana.”

  George thought he detected an accent, though it was an indefinable one, not heavily Southern. “Why’s that?”

  “My brother lives there. He moved from Charlottesville to a small farm outside Indianapolis eight years ago. He belongs to a volunteer infantry regiment; I do not know which one. I thought perhaps you might be acquainted with him. Hugo Hoffman, two f’s”

  “Afraid not. The Union Army’s pretty big.”

  Hoffman didn’t respond to George’s smile. “Much bigger than ours.”

  “It must be hard, having a brother on our side. But I know it isn’t uncommon. There are cousins fighting each other—and friends. My best friend in the whole world is a colonel in your army, as a matter of fact.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t know him. He’s in Richmond, at your War Department.”

  “What is his name?”

  Stubborn Dutchman, George thought. “Main, as in Main Street. His first name is Orry.”

  “But I do know him. That is, I have heard of him.” George was openmouthed. “I remember because it is not a common name. There was a Colonel Orry Main on General Pickett’s staff throughout most of last fall.”