North and South nas-1

by Джон Джейкс

  George stroked his mustache with the tip of his index finger. "Not solely to apologize. Stanley and I have some things to straighten out."

  Resigned to it, she murmured, "I understand. I have seen it coming for quite a while. Perhaps this is as good a time as any."

  She closed her eyes and rested her hands, one on top of the other, on the clean counterpane. He was glad she understood. It made what he was about to do considerably easier.

  He knocked softly at the door of his brother's suite. Isabel answered, informing him coldly that Stanley was downstairs, in the saloon bar. George found him hunched over a large glass of Kentucky whiskey. He ordered one for himself but left it untasted. He made an effort to maintain a temperate tone as he said:

  ''I am going to assume responsibility for the company bank accounts.''

  "Oh? You've spoken to Mother?" Stanley asked with weary bitterness.

  "I have not. This is solely between the two of us. When we reach Newport, we'll compose a letter to each of the banks we use." His heart was beating fast. "From now on, my signature will be the only one that can authorize expenditures above fifty dollars. There'll be no more private rail cars for a while."

  Stanley stared into the mahogany-bordered mirror behind the bar. Above it an antlered stag looked over their heads with glassy disinterest. Abruptly, Stanley laughed.

  "I thought something like this was coming. I don't give a damn. I've never liked the iron trade anyway, and you've pushed and pushed to take over the whole thing."

  George suppressed anger and continued to speak calmly. "I can give it my full attention. You're developing other interests. I gather you wouldn't be averse to holding political office."

  "Eventually," Stanley agreed. "For one thing, it would get me away from Lehigh Station." And you was the unspoken conclusion.

  George avoided the bait. "Then I'm glad we've reached an understanding. I'm sorry for what I did last night."

  He held out his hand. Stanley glanced at it, then curled his fingers around his glass and bent forward, as if to protect it. "If you don't mind, I'd rather drink by myself."

  "Whatever you say."

  George left the bar.

  The others sensed that a change had taken place within the family. Isabel didn't hide her resentment, but Stanley showed occasional flashes of relief. He laughed and joked as he hadn't for years.

  They remained in New Haven an extra day, completing and signing depositions about the accident for the railroad's management. The following morning they rather nervously boarded another train for Rhode Island. They had been traveling about an hour when an incident took place that signaled that the transition of leadership was complete, and final.

  They were talking about christening their summer place; all such estates in Newport had names. Stanley mentioned that in front of the house there was a broad and beautiful expanse of grass. He suggested the name Fairlawn.

  "Very pretty," Maude said. "But what do you think, George?"

  George thought the name unimaginative. Then he remembered one of the lessons of West Point. It behooved an officer to show courtesy to a beaten opponent.

  "I like it," he said, smiling at his brother.

  Disdainful, Isabel said, "Then I suppose that settles it."

  It did. Stanley looked boyishly grateful.

  25

  Fairlawn was a splendid, airy house, three stories high and gleaming with a new coat of white paint. The landscaping had been neglected, however. Weeds choked the flower beds; dead limbs disfigured the trees. And the low brick wall surrounding the property needed mortaring. At George's request, Stanley supervised the masons and gardeners. He appeared to enjoy himself.

  The price of the house had included all the furnishings. The women liked very few of the pieces, however, and spent the first couple of days ordering replacements. Constance deferred to Isabel whenever possible. The effort did nothing to moderate Isabel's animosity.

  Everyone in the family kept as busy as possible, sensing it would help them forget the wreck. Maude's injuries were the most obvious reminder. Her dizzy spells persisted, and she moved slowly because of the broken ribs. Constance suffered from nightmares, always a recapitulation of her struggle to escape from the burning car. William dreamed of the accident too; he awoke crying and thrashing every night for nearly two weeks.

  The Mains arrived on the fifth of July, one day after President Taylor ate too many cucumbers and drank too much cold milk at a patriotic celebration and fell ill. On July 9 he died of cholera morbus. Some editorialists said he had really been killed by worry and the pressures of office, particularly those created by sectional antagonism. Millard Fillmore assumed the presidency on July 10.

  By then the Mains had settled into their rented house, just a short distance away on Old Beach Road. Both families eased into the abundant pleasures of a Newport summertime. There were pony-cart rides and outings to the beach during the day, lawn games during long evenings sweet with the smell of freshly scythed grass. Newport Beach was close by but crowded; the family preferred a more private bathing area at the south end of the island, within sight of a jutting offshore formation local people called Spouting Rock.

  At first Tillet seemed uncomfortable on Yankee soil. Soon, however, he renewed acquaintances with several other families from South Carolina, including the Izards, and after that he relaxed and enjoyed himself.

  Except when he read the news from Washington. Fillmore intended to support Clay's compromise bills, which were now seen as certain to pass, probably before the end of the year. A group of younger congressmen led by Stephen Douglas of Illinois had pledged to break the voting stalemate created by the old guard.

  The four young people spent a great deal of time together. Both Ashton and Brett got along well with the stocky, cheerfully pugnacious Billy Hazard, though he was chiefly interested in Ashton. He was fifteen, she one year younger; Brett was a mere child of twelve.

  Charles, fourteen, gave the impression of being the most mature of the foursome. His height had something to do with it; he was already a full head taller than Billy. He was handsome and prone to laugh a lot. Charles and Billy were as cordial as could be expected of two boys getting to know each other. Orry and George watched the new friendship with great interest.

  George bought a skiff, and one evening after supper, the boys took it down to the beach to experiment. George and Orry went along to keep an eye on the neophyte sailors. Billy had a little experience with small boats, but Charles had none.

  George and Orry sat on opposite sides of a big rock. The Atlantic was calm, with just enough breeze for fine sailing close to shore. Orry lifted a handful of sand and let it trickle away. The vacation seemed to be relaxing him. Yet on occasion George still detected a bitter undertone in his friend's speech.

  Not tonight, though. Orry smiled as he gazed toward the skiff. "Look at them. Re-chisel a few of the features and that could be the two of us. Stick and Stump the Second."

  George nodded and puffed his cigar. "I hope they'll be as good friends at West Point as we were, even if they will be a year apart. Charles is a devilishly handsome fellow, isn't he? Almost the perfect picture of the dashing Southern gentleman."

  Orry chuckled. "Who'd have believed our salt crow would turn into a hawk? He cleaned up right well, as the saying goes."

  "Your father says you deserve the credit."

  Orry shrugged. "Charles loves to scrap. When he found there were ways to do it without being tossed in jail or having everyone furious with him, it was a most impressive lesson. He's learned it well."

  "And a lot of other things. I always thought I was pretty good with the ladies, but I can't bow and kiss a woman's hand as gracefully as he does. The first evening you came to Fairlawn, he fussed over my mother till she blushed like a girl."

  Rowdy shouts rang across the water, then a gleeful whoop and a splash. Billy dumped Charles off the skiff.

  Orry and George jumped up. Charles quickly clambered back onto the
little boat. He pointed at something on the horizon — something nonexistent — and when Billy turned to look, grabbed Billy's belt and shirt and threw him in. Soaked, the two boys sat laughing in the skiff a few moments later.

  "I'm proud of the way he's turning out," Orry admitted as he took his place on the rock again. "I had my share of regrets when I came home from Mexico. Charles has helped me banish some of them."

  "The change showed in your letters. It was welcome."

  "And this has been a welcome vacation. Well, in most respects. I still hate the stench of those weeds you smoke."

  George laughed. Orry stretched his right arm high above his head and yawned. The sunset flung their long, attenuated shadows across the beach. The wind picked up. Snaky veils of sand blew past them.

  George found it a melancholy sight. It reminded him of how quickly time was slipping away. Even time seemingly recaptured in the forms of those two laughing youngsters was an illusion, one that his own mind created as an antidote for the way things really were. A futile antidote; neither time nor change could ever be stopped. Of late, the realization lent life a bittersweet quality.

  Still, this was a good moment, the kind of calm, complete moment he found rare these days.

  Orry felt it too. His mood grew mellow. "I'll tell you how much I'm enjoying myself. So much, I'm even beginning to feel charitable toward my older brother."

  "How is Cooper?"

  "Happy, Married to that free-thinking Unitarian. A good marriage. Father can't quite accept it. Of course he's delighted to accept all the profits Cooper is generating from the packet line. Did I write you about our new vessel? She'll be off the ways in a month. Cooper's already talking about investing in more. He wants to get to Britain to study their methods of shipbuilding."

  George cleared his throat and finally asked the question that had been on his mind since Orry's arrival.

  "Is there any news of Madeline?"

  Orry turned toward his friend, away from the sun. His eyes were sunken in patches of shadow. "No news, and no change."

  "Do you still see her?"

  "As often as I can. It's a bad bargain, but better than none."

  The sand veils whispered past their feet. The beach was growing dark. George rose and signaled the boys. Billy and Charles beached the skiff, unstepped the mast, and raised it to their shoulders. "You'll make a sailor yet," Billy said as they followed their elders toward the dirt road leading home.

  Charles grinned. "A sailor but never a Yankee, I hope."

  "What's wrong with Yankees?"

  "Mr. Hazard, sir, I'll be happy to tell you — if you have the rest of the night free."

  "Not to listen to tall tales and made-up stories." The banter irked Billy somehow. "Let's discuss something we can agree on."

  "Girls?"

  "Girls," Billy said emphatically, his good humor restored. He was thinking about a particular girl named Ashton.

  Ahead, slow-moving shadows in the purpling dusk, George smiled at the sound of the young voices. Orry smiled too. Stick and Stump the Second.

  The mellow mood disintegrated as soon as they arrived at Fairlawn. The ladies had gathered on the side porch with pitchers of iced lemonade — and without Virgilia at first. Now she was present; she had joined them after drinking a quantity of claret. George and the others found her in the midst of a sermonette on revisions to the fugitive-slave law of 1793, revisions that the Congress was currently debating.

  "The whole business is nothing but a scheme to appease the South," she declared, slurring more than a few words.

  "Dear me,"Clarissa sighed. "I feel so lost in discussions of such issues."

  "Then I would inform myself if I were you, Mrs. Main."

  Virgilia's tone irked the other women in her family. Among the Mains it was Ashton who reacted most visibly. Seated in a cane rocker with an untasted glass of lemonade in her hand, she glared at Virgilia, who paid no attention.

  "Very simply, the revisions will remove fugitive slave cases from state jurisdiction. From now on all such cases will be handled by the Federal government. That would lead you to believe that the decisions would probably benefit the runaways, wouldn't it?"

  "Yes, that would be my assumption," Clarissa said.

  "You would be wrong. The true purpose of the revisions is to circumvent strong liberty laws, such as the one in Vermont. The revisions favor the slave catchers and the slave owners. All it will take to establish proof of ownership is an affidavit, which can easily be forged. Further; a runaway slave won't be permitted to say a word on his own behalf. It's a put-up job and a shameful one. Why Washington keeps truckling to the South I'll never know."

  Maude had remained silent as long as she could. Now, firmly, she said to her daughter:

  "It's rather impolite of you to lecture when this is a social occasion. If you've finished, perhaps you'd like to excuse yourself. You sound tired."

  Isabel laughed. "Oh, let's tell the truth. The poor child's had too much to drink."

  "Isabel —" Maude, began, but before she could say more, Ashton jumped up, thrust out her chin, and rushed to Virgilia.

  "If you don't like Southerners, why did you invite us here?"

  Clarissa rose. "Ashton, that's enough." She turned to the men, who had been standing silently. "I'm glad you're back, Orry. Will you escort us home, please? So nice to have been with you," she finished, extending her hand to Maude. The visit ended hastily on a note of embarrassment.

  After the Mains left, George cornered his sister on the lawn, where she had gone to avoid the family's wrath. "Will you kindly tell me why you continue to bait our guests?" — he demanded.

  "Why shouldn't I say what I think?"

  "If I truly believed you were doing that, you'd hear no complaints from me. But your candor goes far beyond mere discusssion or even conviction. You try to insult people. Wound them. And you do it to my very good friends."

  "They are not my friends. They represent a way of life that's despicable and utterly wrong. I wouldn't care if the earth opened and swallowed the lot of them."

  "By God, you're the rudest, most inconsiderate —"

  He was talking to the lightning bugs; Virgilia had turned and rushed to the house.

  It took three cigars and a long tramp along Newport's deserted roads for George to regain a measure of calm. What was the use of arguing with her? She was incorrigible. Lord, what will the rest of the summer be like?

  Fortunately, two days later a letter from an abolitionist colleague summoned Virgilia to Boston. She packed and left for the ferry with scarcely a word to anyone. Maude acted relieved. Though George didn't show it, he was too.

  Ultimately the strongest reaction his sister generated within him was pity. She struck out viciously at too many people. Someday one of them would strike back. It might even be a Yankee. Northerners were hardly as virtuous as Virgilia liked to pretend.

  What of her future, then? What had she to look forward to? Unhappiness? Without a doubt. Tragedy? Yes, that was very possible, he admitted with a feeling of sadness.

  "Tarnation. What's this we got?"

  "Another one of the summer bunch, from the looks of him."

  "I ain't speakin' of him, Oral. Look at that fancy pole and creel."

  Unseen, Billy heard the low voices and held still. He was high in the tree he had climbed to reach the good apples. Down below, the four townies had appeared through a break in the hedge bordering the orchard. Three of the townies were white, one black.

  Billy and Charles had hiked north of town, fished the bay unsuccessfully for two hours, and detoured into the orchard on their way home. Now they were in for trouble. Most townies hated the hordes of visitors who infested the island every summer. These four were no exception.

  Billy was crouched in a fork created by two upper limbs of the tree. His left leg was bent, his heel jammed tight against the underside of his thigh. The muscles of that leg already hurt like the devil. The townies hadn't seen him. They were concent
rating on the expensive fishing gear lying in the grass next to Charles, who sat with his back against the tree. His chin rested on his shirt. His eyes were closed. "If you like it, help yourself," said the boy addressed as Oral; he was the Negro. "He won't fuss. He's sleepin.' "

  Charles's eyes flew open. One of the townies yelped. Charles used the distraction to draw his right leg up in an inverted V so that his boot was within reach. The boot in which he hid the bowie knife.

  "Afraid you're wrong on both counts," he said with a broad smile. Billy gazed down at the top of Charles's head, at long hair ruffled by the wind. He didn't miss the casual way Charles laid his right hand on his knee, a few inches above his boot top.

  "Damn if he don't sound like a Southron," a towheaded townie said. He nudged the black. "Bet he's one of them boys that whups your kinfolk down in Georgia."

  "Yeah, I bet he is," Oral said. His eyes were ugly. "We're takin' them fishing things."

  Still smiling, Charles clasped his right hand lightly around the upper part of his calf. "It would be a serious mistake to do that, boys."

  "Oh, yes?" Oral sneered. "It's four on one." He bent at the waist, reaching for Charles's big wicker creel. Suddenly the towhead spotted the other rod leaning against the trunk.

  "Lookit, Oral. They's two poles. Why would he have two?"

  Oral was so eager to claim Charles's things he ignored the anxious note in his friend's voice. The other two townies began to look around the orchard in a puzzled way. Slowly and silently, Billy straightened his left leg, never taking his eyes from Charles's right hand. When Charles grabbed for the top of his boot and rolled, Billy jumped.

  "Jesus Almighty," Towhead screamed, a second before Billy's heavy walking boots struck his shoulders.

  Bone cracked. Towhead went tumbling backward into the hedge. Crouching, Charles moved his right hand slowly. Oral watched the point of Charles's knife trace a circle in the air. The black youth began to perspire.

  "Now, sir," Charles said to Oral. "Is it all Southerners you dislike? Or just Southerners who can't abide thieves?"