He’s about as scared as I am, Paul thought suddenly. As Clay gave them the instructions and he moved into position, he realized that he was afraid. He had never faced death, and the idea that in a few seconds his brain might be suddenly shut down and his heart stilled brought fear. Not of the pain that a bullet might bring, but of what might follow. He was not a godly man, but he had seen true faith in his own family, in a fighting man like Clay Rocklin.
He recalled the words from Shakespeare’s play Hamlet, that it was not the fear of death itself that caused alarm, but “in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?” As he held the pistol at the ready and began to pace off the distance while Clay counted clearly, he was sad that he might leave the good things of earth—and fearful of what might come after death.
He heard the final count, whirled, and lowered his piece until it pointed at Huger. He pulled the trigger at once and heard Huger’s pistol go off at almost the same instant.
And nothing happened!
He stood there, swaying slightly, and saw that Huger was doing the same. A great relief swept over him, and then Clay said, “Now your honor has been satisfied, and there will be no more action. The two of you should shake hands.”
And then it was over, the two parties leaving the little mound as if they were guilty of some crime. When they were out of hearing of the other party, Paul stopped and pulled out his handkerchief. He mopped his brow, then stared at Clay. “I might as well tell you, Clay, I was scared spitless!”
“Sensible.” Clay nodded. Then he said, “Makes a fellow think about what his life means, doesn’t it, Paul? Seems like we don’t really think about it much until it looks like we’re going to lose it.”
They moved down the path, and when they mounted their horses, Paul remarked a little critically, “It didn’t seem to bother you much that I might get killed.”
“Didn’t bother me at all,” Clay said cheerfully. “Because I knew that was impossible.”
Paul looked at him in surprise. “How could you know we’d both miss?”
“Because I loaded the pistols.”
Paul pulled Queenie up sharply and stared at his cousin. A light dawned, and he exclaimed, “You did something to those pistols, Clay!”
“Sure I did,” Clay agreed. “Didn’t want to see either you or Huger get killed. Be a waste.”
“What did you load the pistols with?”
“I had Dorrie bake me some little pieces of bread, nice and round—just the size of pistol balls. Matter of fact, they looked exactly like the balls that were in Grandfather’s set.” Humor twinkled in Clay’s eyes, and he said, “Had to be real careful that I got the right ones when I loaded the pistols.”
For a moment, anger rose in Paul, and his face turned hard. Then a strange thing happened. He thought of how solemn he and Huger had been…and how it must have looked to Clay.… His lips began to twitch, and he suddenly grinned. “You scoundrel!” he cried. “I ought to shoot you with a real bullet!”
And then he began to laugh, and Clay joined him. Soon they both were roaring, and finally he gasped, “I can’t—help thinking, Clay—how pompous—we were! And then we shot each other—with toast!”
“Don’t tell anyone, not ever, Paul!” Clay warned, merriment still dancing in his eyes. “It would humiliate Huger.”
“Huger!” Paul demanded. “What about me?”
“You’ve got more sense,” Clay remarked. “Let’s go get some hot chocolate. This foolishness has frozen me to the marrow!”
CHAPTER 3
AN OFFER FROM THE PRESIDENT
When the Southern Confederacy chose Jefferson Davis as president, the choice polarized the newborn nation.
Half of the Southern people were disappointed, for the new chief magistrate was an austere man, not given to gestures designed to please the multitude (as were others who had sought the office). To this segment, Davis seemed a cold, unbending man who lacked warmth and charm.
But the other half of the population saw in Davis the noblest aristocrat whom the South had yet produced. As a senator from Mississippi, he had skillfully led that body in a masterful fashion; as a hero of the Mexican War, he had the military mind necessary to lead a nation at war.
To Varina Davis, his beautiful young wife, he was a man capable of gentleness and fervent love, but she was well aware that this side of her husband’s nature was not easily seen by those who viewed him only as a soldier or a statesman. Mrs. Davis was small, dark, and very beautiful, and she felt that she had been selected by destiny to rule over the newborn nation. She was a vibrant woman, vivacious and witty, who saw far more clearly than her husband that the Confederacy was not one in spirit. How could it be, when they were fighting for states’ rights and, by definition, that meant that the various elements of the Confederacy were at least as loyal to their native states as to the Confederacy itself? Already this had become a problem, for the governor of South Carolina refused to surrender the huge supplies gathered by that state to troops from other areas!
Varina Davis had one friend with whom she shared almost everything—a confidante in whom she put complete trust. It was to this beloved friend, Mary Chesnut, that the president’s wife turned for assurance one bright and sunny day in early December.
“Mary,” Varina said as the two of them sat knitting socks for the soldiers, “did you read what the Examiner wrote about President Davis this week?”
Mary Boykin Chesnut was originally from South Carolina. However, she had become a leader of Richmond society since coming to live there. Though not a beautiful woman, she had the sort of attractive manners that drew admirers from both sexes. Her dark hair was parted in the center and drawn back to form a bun, and her eyes were dark and penetrating.
“It wasn’t as bad as what the Charleston Mercury said,” Mrs. Chesnut remarked.
“It was frightful!” Mrs. Davis jabbed at the yarn spitefully, then tossed the unfinished task aside. She had made many speeches urging the women of Richmond to do their best for their boys in gray, but so far as Mary Chesnut knew, the president’s wife had finished only four pair of socks since the war had started. Varina got up and paced the floor nervously, speaking of the unfair criticism her husband had received from the press. She had some justification for her anger at the criticism, for many felt that the South should be attacking the Northern forces, not sitting around basking in the glory of one battle won.
Finally Mrs. Chesnut tactfully changed the subject. “Has your husband been getting along with General Johnston better?”
“Oh my, no!” Mrs. Davis said emphatically. “That gentleman is as touchy as a man without a skin!”
“Well, Johnston feels that he was passed over when the president chose other men above him.”
“He must accept my husband’s estimate of the situation. After all, the president knows more about military matters than any of the generals. He told me that he would rather have been chosen general of the army than president.”
This was true, and it was a fact that was destined to cause grave problems for the Confederacy. Jefferson Davis did see himself as an expert in military matters, which hindered him from ever completely trusting his generals to do the wise thing. He developed a habit of voiding the plans of campaigns, which only irritated and shocked Generals Beauregard and Joseph E. Johnston. Unfortunately, neither general ever seemed to learn that Jefferson Davis had a large ego that demanded constant attention. Johnston especially was so proud himself that he never bothered to placate the president. He considered himself the best military mind in the South and spent much time expounding on this publicly.
Mrs. Chesnut spoke about the feud between General Johnston and the president, adding, “Your husband prefers Albert Sidney Johnston, I believe.”
“Yes! He says that he has one real general, at least.”
“I wonder how General Lee feels about this,” Mrs. Chesnut mused. “He never says a negative word about anything.”
“Oh, my husband thinks ther
e’s no man like General Lee! But he can’t spare him for active duty. Lee is such a thoughtful man, isn’t he? He takes a great load from my poor husband’s shoulders, but because of that, we could on no account allow him to go into the field.”
Mary longed to reply that it was a terrible waste to keep one of the ablest generals in Richmond cooped up just to soothe President Davis’s nerves, but she was wise enough to say only, “I suppose Lee’s chance will come.”
Ten minutes later the door opened and President Davis entered. His rather haggard features lit up at the sight of his wife, and he went to her at once, touching her shoulder and murmuring a few words. Then he turned to say, “Well, Mary, how is the sock situation in the Southern Confederacy? I’ll venture you knit them in your sleep!” The president was fond of Mary and had great confidence in her husband, Colonel James Chesnut—so much so that he had sent him on the all-important mission of settling the surrender of Fort Sumter. The president sat down and, for half an hour, talked about books with Mrs. Chesnut, his face relaxing as he put aside the heavy weight of office.
Eventually, though, the conversation turned to the war, as all conversations ultimately did in Richmond. It was the president who brought up the subject of the power of the press. “That fellow Horace Greeley does us more harm than the Yankee Army,” he snapped. “He’s a fool, but people listen to him. The peace party might be fairly effective if the newspapers would stop hammering at the people to go to war!”
“Well, some of our own newspapers do us more harm than good,” Mrs. Davis said. “I don’t see why you put up with the lies they tell about you.”
“I put up with it, my dear,” Davis said with a trace of a smile, “because I’m the president and not the king. I hardly have the power to behead those who disagree with me.”
“I wish you did!” Varina Davis snapped. “You could start with the editor of the Mercury. Getting rid of him would be something to be proud of!”
“Yes, I daresay you’re right, but I can’t call the man out and fight a duel with him.” Davis had a lean, almost shrunken face, with deep-set eyes and a thin, ascetic mouth. He had been a most able senator, but he had not and never would master the art of choosing capable men and then letting them have full authority. He was in poor health, which may well have lain at the root of many of his poor decisions. But Davis was astute, and he well understood that hard, difficult days lay ahead for the South, despite the fact that since the first battle, both the North and the South had pulled back and experienced only minor engagements in Kentucky and Tennessee.
“You know,” the president said, watching the two women thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking of a plan to make our people more aware of the war.” He laced his long fingers together, adding, “The Yankees are sending artists to the battles. They make sketches of the battle scenes, which the newspapers print. I think we must do something like that.”
“Why, that’s a splendid idea!” his wife exclaimed, her dark eyes glowing. “Think of how wonderful it would be if people could actually see pictures of our noble troops being led into battle!”
As the president and his wife spoke of the advantages of the use of drawing, Mary Chesnut was getting another idea. When the pair seemed to have agreed that something should be done, she said, “Mr. President, wouldn’t it be possible to send someone to take actual pictures of the battles?”
Davis blinked in surprise, then exclaimed, “Why, I’ve seen some of those, Mary! Some fellow named Brady took one of those camera contraptions to Bull Run. Actually got daguerreotypes of the Washington crowd on their way back to Washington!” Davis rose at once and began pacing the floor, his face alight with excitement. “Yes, that would be just the thing! This fellow Brady…I met him once. He’s got a studio in New York. Does wonderful work! I think he’s taken a daguerreotype of all the living presidents. I’ve seen the one he made of Old Hickory. Marvelous!”
Mrs. Chesnut was pleased that her suggestion had taken hold so quickly. When the president began to ask, “Now let’s see, where do we find a man who could do such a thing? Most of those fellows are in New York and Washington—,” she broke in quietly:
“I have a suggestion, Mr. President.”
Jefferson Davis came to sit beside her, and Mrs. Chesnut said, “There is a young man named Paul Bristol…”
“And this is Mr. Paul Bristol, the young man I was telling you about, Mr. President.” Mary Chesnut smiled. “Mr. Bristol, President Jefferson Davis.”
Bristol took the lean hand the president offered, saying, “It’s a great pleasure, Mr. President.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Bristol,” Davis said with a smile. “I suppose you’re wondering about being summoned here on such short notice?”
“Well…” Paul hesitated, not certain how to answer. When a messenger had brought the brief note from President Davis, he had been perplexed—and a little apprehensive. His father had been the same. “I wonder if he’s heard about that affair you and Huger had?” Claude Bristol asked nervously when Paul showed him the note.
“Perhaps so,” Paul had answered. “But I don’t think it’s about that. If Jefferson Davis summoned everyone who had doubts about the government, he wouldn’t have time for anything else.”
Paul had thought about the strangeness of it for two days, and when he’d finally entered the Chesnut home, where the note had instructed him to appear, he’d simply given up. I guess he can’t have me shot, he thought as he entered the house and surrendered his hat and coat to the servant. I can always tell him that Huger and I used toast instead of real bullets!
When he met the president, he saw at once that he was not in trouble, for Davis was smiling warmly. “Here, sit down and let’s let these ladies wait on us.” Davis sat down on a horsehide chair, waving toward a matching chair that faced him. “Coffee, Mr. Bristol? Oh, I forgot, there isn’t any. The Yankee blockade is getting to be a real inconvenience. But we do have some wine, don’t we, Mrs. Chesnut?”
“Yes, we do, Mr. President.” While Mrs. Chesnut moved to a large sideboard and poured two glasses of wine, the president spoke in an animated fashion about England, and Paul, at Davis’s request, gave his opinion of the Confederacy’s chances of recognition.
Finally Davis took the wine glass and proposed a toast: “To the South—may her future be as glorious as her past!” He drank his wine, then smiled as he saw that Paul had joined him. “You concur with that toast, I take it, Mr. Bristol?”
“Why, of course, Mr. President!”
Davis rarely smiled, but when he did, it changed his entire appearance, making him look much younger. Now as he considered Paul, his eyes had a definite glow of humor. “I’m happy that your little affair with Mr. Huger ended so pleasantly. Our country needs young men such as you.” For one awful moment, Paul was afraid that Clay had betrayed him, that the president knew about the trick with the bullets and was about to laugh at him! But he relaxed when the president nodded and continued firmly, “You are both young men of courage. It would indeed have been a tragedy for the Cause to have lost either of you. But no more duels, I take it?”
“Oh no, sir!”
Davis sat there studying Paul carefully. He had heard this young man’s history from Mrs. Chesnut and had planned out how to approach him. “Mr. Bristol, you are a little out of step with most young men of your age,” he said finally. “I suppose that is because you are an artist and most men of art seem to be out of step with this world, at least to some extent. Of course, you’ve been in Europe, Mrs. Chesnut informs me, for the past few years, and that means you haven’t been in the center of the storm as have the rest of us.”
Bristol saw that a response was expected and said, “Why, that’s about the way it is, Mr. President. I feel like an old man when I see these young fellows twenty years old getting ready for the war.”
“Yes, I can imagine. You are—what? Thirty years old?”
“Thirty-one, sir.”
“Well, that’s young from my po
int of view,” Davis said with a nod. “But war is a young man’s affair.” A sadness touched his deep-set eyes, and he said quietly, “We’ll see boys and old men in uniform before it’s over.” He shrugged his shoulders, then seemed to grow more businesslike. “Mrs. Chesnut tells me you’ve had some experience with making pictures…with daguerreotypes? I’d like to hear about that, if you don’t mind, Mr. Bristol.”
Bewildered, but willing enough, Paul spoke of his days in Paris, where he’d studied under Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre, inventor of the daguerreotype. “I was taking some drawing lessons from one of his students, and he invited me to go for a visit to Daguerre’s studio. Well, it was quite a show, Mr. President!” Paul spoke excitedly, unaware that Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Chesnut had come to sit close by. “He’s such a fine man! So unselfish—Monsieur Daguerre, I mean. Why, he gave the secret of his process to the world when it would have made him a millionaire!”
“I didn’t know that,” the president said, impressed. “And did you master the process?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Paul protested. “I learned a great deal from my friend: how to take the pictures, how to develop them, how to use the equipment…that sort of thing.” Paul had been thinking rapidly and came to a conclusion. “Are you thinking of some sort of unit to photograph the battles, Mr. President?”
Davis nodded. “That’s exactly right, Mr. Bristol. What do you think of the idea?”
Paul said thoughtfully, “It could be a two-edged sword, Mr. President.”
Davis was surprised. “How do you mean?”
“You were in the Mexican War. Imagine if there had been pictures of the American dead. What effect would that have had on the country’s support of the war?”
Davis grew thoughtful. “I see that I haven’t thought this thing out thoroughly. That would be a problem. Of course…if the people saw pictures of the Yankee dead only…?”
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 4