Love and War: The North and South Trilogy (Book Two)

by John Jakes

  Naked against him, Ashton had a sudden vision of the revolver he had shown the refugees from Mechanicsville. Surely he didn’t mean anything like that.

  Surely not.

  Like the man whose existence he suspected but whose name he didn’t know, James Huntoon hated the President of the Confederate States of America. He would have liked to see him out of office, if not dead. The way things were going this June, the Yankees might achieve both objectives.

  Huntoon lived in a state of constant nervous exhaustion, unable to sleep soundly, unable to take cheer from reports of Jackson’s feats in the valley or of Stuart and twelve hundred men riding completely around McClellan’s army—a spectacular stunt, certainly, but one of small practical benefit to the besieged capital.

  At Treasury, too, boxes were being packed. Huntoon had to sweat like a slave, which angered him. Adding to his unhappiness were speculations about Ashton’s absences. They were frequent these days, usually long, and always unexplained.

  What a lunatic world this had become. The Grace Street house was defended against refugees and military stragglers by a musket Huntoon had placed in the hands of Homer, the senior houseman. Never would he have imagined that he would arm a slave, but with rabble skulking everywhere and mobs rushing to the hilltops to listen for firing or watch the Union balloons at all hours, what choice had he?

  He listened for the gunfire, too. He listened to the drums and fifes of relief units marching out to the earthworks. And, unwillingly, he listened to the ceaseless creak of ambulances coming in—long lines of them, deceptively festive at night when they were bedecked with lanterns. There was nothing festive about the noises that issued from them. Nothing festive about the church foyers and hotel lobbies where the wounded and dying were laid in rows because the hospitals couldn’t hold them.

  Huntoon desperately wanted to escape the city. He had purchased a pair of railway tickets—wheedled, schemed, even bribed one man for the privilege of paying triple the regular price—but Ashton flatly refused to leave. She implied he was a coward simply because he possessed the tickets. Did she believe that or was it subterfuge? From whence came this new courage, this patriotism she had never exhibited before? From her lover?

  Early one evening, while she was still out, he went quite innocently to the desk where she wrote personal notes to ladies of her acquaintance. Searching for a pen nib to replace his, which had broken, he found the packet of statements and letters.

  “What is this bank account in Nassau?” In shirt sleeves, wet rings showing under his arms, he thrust the packet at her an hour later. “We have no bank account in Nassau.”

  She snatched the packet. “How dare you invade my desk and pry into my belongings?”

  He winced and retreated to tall open windows overlooking Grace Street. The street was filled with Southern Express Company wagons doing duty as ambulances. “I—I didn’t pry or spy or anything like that. I needed a pen—Damn it, why must I explain to you?” he shouted with uncharacteristic bravery. “You are the one cheating on me. What do those papers mean? I demand you explain.”

  “James, calm yourself.” She saw she had pushed him too far. This had to be handled delicately lest it threaten her liaison with Powell. “Please sit down, and I will.”

  He fell into a chair that crackled as if it might break. Homer’s shadow passed the open windows. The slave made her nervous with that musket. High in the eastern sky, a signal shell exploded. A flat report followed the shower of brilliant blue light-streamers. She began carefully.

  “Did you read through all the statements? Study the numbers?” Flushed with heat and tension, she extracted one paper from the packet, unfolded it, and handed it to him. “That shows the balance in our account as of last month.”

  The fine, looping handwriting blurred. He knuckled his eyes. Our account, she said. Still, he was baffled. “These are pounds sterling—”

  “Quite right. At present exchange rates, we have a quarter of a million dollars—sound Yankee dollars, not Confederate paper.” Skirts whispering, she ran to him and knelt—humiliating, but it might divert him when she reached the trickiest part. “We have earned a profit of approximately seven hundred percent from just two voyages between Nassau and Wilmington.”

  “Voyages?” He goggled. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “The ship, darling. The swift little steamship Mr. Lamar Powell wanted you to invest in, don’t you remember? You refused, but I took the risk. She was refitted in Liverpool last fall, sailed to the Bahamas by her British captain and crew—and she’s already made us what some would consider a fortune. If she goes to the bottom tomorrow, we’ve recouped our investment many times over,”

  “Powell—that worthless adventurer?”

  “A shrewd businessman, dearest.”

  His tiny eyes blinked behind the wire spectacles. “Do you see him?”

  “Oh, no. Disbursement of profits takes place in Nassau, and we receive these reports by mail that comes in on blockade runners. Water Witch has done so well because she doesn’t carry any war cargo. She brings in coffee, lace—niceties that are scarce and command huge prices—and when she goes out again, she’s loaded with cotton. There, I’ve explained everything, haven’t I? It just addles my poor head to do so, but I want you to retire for the evening assured and comforted. You can fall asleep dreaming of your new-found—”

  “You defied me, Ashton,” he broke in, shaking the paper at her. Still heavy weather ahead. “I said no to Powell, and secretly, behind my back, you took our nest egg—”

  She let the sweet belle’s smile go now; it hadn’t worked. “The money, I remind you, was mine to start with.”

  “Legally it’s mine. I am your husband.”

  Creak and creak, the express wagons passed, lanterns bobbing like skiffs in a rough sea. A man shrieked; another wept; two more signal lights burst, cascaded, and died behind the rooftops. “James,” she said, “what is the matter with you? I have increased our wealth—”

  “Illegally,” he shouted. “Unpatriotically. What else have you done that’s immoral?”

  Instinct said she must attack, and quickly, or he would suspect. “What do you mean by that insulting remark?”

  “Noth—” He pushed at hair straggling over his greasy forehead. “Nothing.” He turned away.

  Ashton jerked him around. “I demand a better answer than that.”

  “I just—” he avoided her eye—“wondered—is Powell in Richmond?”

  “I believe so. I can’t swear. I told you, I don’t see him. I delivered the initial investment to an attorney handling formation of the syndicate. Powell was there, but I have not met him since.”

  Her breast felt fiery, painful because her heart beat so fast. But she had learned long ago that successful deception depended on strong nerves, a controlled expression, and eyes that never wavered from the person to be deceived. She knew Huntoon’s emotional temperature was falling when his shoulders returned to their customary droop. His attempt at masculinity had been brief and unsuccessful.

  “I believe you,” he said, then noticed her dark eyes fixed behind him. Turning, he saw Homer on the terrace, drawn by the shouting.

  Ashton lashed him. “Get back to your rounds!” He disappeared.

  “I believe you,” Huntoon said again, “but do you realize the stigma you’ve put on yourself? You’re a speculator now. They’re a scorned breed. Some say every one of them should be arrested, tried, and hung.”

  “Too late to worry about that, my sweet. If anyone calls for a noose, two will be needed in this family. So I suggest you follow my example and be discreet about the subject of Water Witch. You might also be glad I had the foresight you lacked.”

  It was harsh and slipped out, but she was tired of dealing with a child. This child deserved whipping, not coddling. Fortunately, he could no longer summon anger, just his customary whine:

  “But, Ashton—I don’t know whether I can accept money from—”
/>   “You can. You will.” She pointed to the packet. “You already have.”

  Suddenly he squeezed his eyes shut and clutched the edge of the tall window as the last ambulance rolled out of sight. There came sudden rumblings and boomings. Rooftops flickered red. Responding to pent-up fear, people poured into nearby streets, shouting questions. Was the invasion at hand?

  Oblivious, Huntoon whispered, “Jesus, you’re so hard.” Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes. “So hard—You leave me nothing. I feel—You make me feel like a man not worthy of the name.”

  How shortsighted and pathetic he was. It made her angry all over again, with no desire to spare him.

  “Is the word you want castrated, darling?”

  Trembling, loathing her, he watched her affirm her own question with a small, neat nod. Businesslike, she continued. “In this matter and in some others we might name, you’re exactly that. We’ve known it for years, haven’t we?”

  Red flashes; cannon fire. “You bitch.”

  Ashton laughed at him.

  Huntoon’s face changed from red to a color close to purple. He blinked, and again, and kept blinking as he rushed to her, grasping and stroking her hand repeatedly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Will you forgive me? I’m sure your decision is an intelligent one. Whatever you want is agreeable. God, I love you. Please say you forgive me?”

  After letting him writhe a few moments longer, she did. She even let him fondle and attempt to make love to her when they went to bed. She was relieved when he was unable to finish and withdrew, flaccid, but saying how happy he was that she had forgiven him.

  Simpleton, she thought, smiling in the dark.

  56

  “NEVER IN MY LIFE have I spent a more peculiar Independence Day,” George said to Constance.

  William was leaning from the parlor window, hauling in bunting he and Patricia had hung the night before. “Why, Pa?”

  “Because,” George said, folding the tricolored material and putting it in a box, “the speeches were so brave and full of hope”—in the afternoon they had attended a long public ceremony—“and down on the peninsula we’re whipped.”

  “It’s really over?” Constance asked. “Nearly. The departmental telegraph reports the army’s withdrawing to the James. McClellan almost had Richmond in his hand and couldn’t take it.”

  “Because Lee brought Stonewall marching to help him,” William said. George responded with a somber nod. His son sounded like an admirer of Old Jack.

  There were none at the Winder Building. How often had George listened to departmental blowhards mock Jackson because he held his arm in the air before or during a battle so the blood would flow properly? How often had he heard it said that some of Jackson’s own subordinates declared him certifiably insane? George was often pressed to provide anecdotes of Jackson’s bizarre behavior from their cadet days, but, although there were plenty, he declined. The mockery disgusted him because its source was fear. Tom Jackson was smart and relentless as a Joshua. His foot cavalry had quick-marched all the way from the valley and helped save Richmond.

  For a full week, the battle for the Confederate capital had seesawed through a series of hot engagements. Mechanicsville—there, inexplicably, Jackson was late to come up to reinforce General A. P. Hill, and his reputation suffered; Gaines’s Mill; Savage Station; Malvern Hill. Despite mistakes and minor successes on both sides, at the end of the seven days, the Richmond defense perimeter, which Bob Lee had worked a month to set and strengthen, still held. Old Bob had outthought and outfought Little Mac and his commanders at every turn. He had slipped and slid in the early months of the war, and suffered for it. But the seven days wiped out all that. George feared for the Union’s fate if Lee took charge.

  Organization of the Bank of Lehigh Station hit a snag. Attorney Jupiter Smith rushed to Washington to report that the legislature respectfully suggested the state participate in the bank’s profits, if any. “What they’re proposing, George, is that we give the state shares amounting to forty thousand dollars and a ten-year option to buy an equal amount at par.”

  George barked, “Oh, is that all?”

  “No, it isn’t. A donation of twenty thousand dollars to the road and bridge fund would be welcome. But I repeat—the suggestions were made very respectfully, George. The legislators realize you’re an important man.”

  “I’m a man with a big club over his head. Goddamn it, Jupe, it’s bribery.”

  The lawyer shrugged. “I prefer to call it accommodation. Or standard practice. The Philadelphia and Pittsburgh banks entered into similar arrangements to get their charters. Whether you want to do it is up to you, of course. But we’ve bought the building, and if you say no, we’ll have to put it up for sale. If you do say no, it won’t bother me. I’ll be shed of huge amounts of paperwork.”

  “And huge fees.”

  Smith looked aggrieved.

  George chewed his cigar. “I still say it’s bribery.” More chewing. “Tell them yes.”

  George proved a poor prophet of military affairs. McClellan stayed on, evidently for want of a competent replacement. The only West Point officers who seemed capable of winning were those who had gone south. This renewed the outcries against the Academy. In mid-July, George received a letter asking him to serve on West Point’s Board of Visitors as a replacement for a member suddenly deceased. The mounting attacks inclined him to accept, so he requested an interview with Stanton. The secretary gave him permission to serve so long as it didn’t interfere with his assigned duties.

  George was mired in work, but he assured Stanton there would be no problem. From the brief conversation, he gained not the slightest hint as to the secretary’s opinion about the Academy.

  Mr. Stanton, he concluded, was by design a circular fortress—safe from attack from any direction.

  Though the Board of Visitors appointment meant more pressure, George was thankful to have it. His job had grown so frustrating he hated to open his eyes in the morning, because that meant donning his uniform and going to the Winder Building. His work with artillery contracts was constantly interrupted by interminable meetings. Should the department recommend adoption of rifle shells—Minié balls with time fuses that exploded after firing? Should the department test shells containing liquid chlorine, which would turn to a heavy, deadly gas when released? George also continued to interview inventors of patently insane weapons. One day he wasted three hours examining drawings of a two-barrel fieldpiece designed to fire a pair of cannonballs linked by a chain. The chain was supposed to decapitate several soldiers when the balls landed.

  “We court the lunatics, and the sane inventors stay away,” he protested to Constance. “They can get a better hearing from a bootblack than they can from us.”

  “You’re exaggerating again.”

  “Think so? Read this.” Into her hands he thrust the latest Scientific American whose editorializing had sent Ripley into a rage:

  We fear that the skill of our mechanics, the self-sacrifice of our people, and the devoted heroism of our troops in their efforts to save the country will all be rendered futile by the utter incompetency which controls the war and navy departments of the government.

  “They deem us fools, and they’re right,” he growled when she finished. She had nothing to say. He went off to see the children in a grumpy, abrasive mood that was becoming a constant in their lives.

  Only one thing helped him survive in the Winder Building. It was not possible for Ripley to interfere with everything, and he now seemed inclined to refrain from meddling with the artillery program. The turnabout had come in April when Parrott rifles had proven their worth by quickly reducing Savannah’s Fort Pulaski to ruins. Still, George felt like a man hanging from a ledge. How much longer his hands would hold out he didn’t know.

  Interwoven with his work and the war were the no less important events of day-to-day family life, some amusing, some troublesome, many just mundane and tiring. Constance by some miracle h
ad found a small, snug house for rent in Georgetown, near the college. By mid-July they were into the upheaval of moving. For a week George roared around the place unable to locate his underdrawers, his cigars, or any other necessities of life.

  One morning Patricia found the bedclothes reddened, and though her mother had prepared her with information about young womanhood, she wept for an hour.

  William was growing rapidly, and his attitude toward girls was changing from loathing to interest tinctured with suspicion. Early in the war he had often said he couldn’t wait to grow up, enlist, and have a grand time fighting for the Union. The long day and longer night after Bull Run had put an end to those declarations.

  No letters came from Billy—another cause for concern. Often at night, when George had worried all he could about Old Ripley and the army, he would lie awake fretting about his younger brother or his old friend Orry.

  Except for Brett, living in Lehigh Station, ties between the Hazards and the Mains were broken. Where was Orry? Where was Charles? A letter smuggler might be hard put to find either of them, though George supposed it could be done if absolutely necessary. What mattered was not that they exchanged letters but that they all came through this dark passage unhurt.

  He never worried about Stanley. His older brother was dressing well and living lavishly. Stanley and Isabel were intimate with Washington’s most powerful men and seen at the city’s most prestigious social gatherings. George couldn’t understand how it could happen to someone as incompetent as Stanley.

  “There are seasons, George,” Constance said by way of answer. “Cycles for all things—the Bible says that. Stanley stood in your shadow for a long time.”

  “And now I’m to be hidden in his?”

  “No, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “It’s the truth. It makes me mad.”