North and South nas-1

by Джон Джейкс

  Huntoon wouldn't be baited. "I'd say revelry is quite in order and excess completely excusable. We've declared our freedom to the world." His glance touched Brett. "Of course our new independence focuses attention on the Federal property in Charleston. The Customs House, the arsenal, the forts. We're organizing a group of commissioners who will approach Buchanan on the matter. Surrender of the property to the sovereign state of South Carolina is now mandatory."

  George moved to Brett's side. "What if Old Buck doesn't see it that way?"

  Huntoon smiled. "Then, sir, we shall resolve the question by other means."

  He tipped his hat a second time and moved on, blending into a crowd of a hundred or so that spilled through the street chanting, "Southern rights! Southern rights! Southern rights!"

  Brett watched Huntoon until he disappeared. Orry felt her hand constrict on his arm. "He said that about the forts because of Billy, didn't he?"

  Cooper overheard. "I wouldn't doubt it. The milk of human kindness flows sparingly, if at all, in Mr. Huntoon."

  They glimpsed him again on the other side of Meeting, fighting his way up the steps of the Mills House, then turning to survey the turbulent street from the top step. The lenses of his spectacles reflected flames leaping from a barrel on the curb. The eyes of a smiling demon, Orry thought. It was one more disturbing image on top of many.

  He thought of Major Anderson out at Fort Moultrie. In Mexico he had known Anderson by sight and by reputation. A fine officer, conscientious and able. What must he be feeling? Where would his loyalty lie in the coming months? With the slaveholders of his native Kentucky or with the Army?

  So many Americans — so many West Pointers — would be tested now; forced to decide where they stood. Orry could almost believe some malevolent power had taken charge of the world.

  "As you suggested, Cooper, an historic moment," he said. "Let's go home."

  Demoralized and silent, they did.

  On the Battery, surrounded and crushed by sweaty, screaming revelers, Ashton found herself unexpectedly stirred. It was as if the mob created currents of power that surged into the ground and then back up her legs, to the very center of her. The secret arousal left her light-headed and short of breath.

  As always, it wasn't the outpouring of patriotism that excited her but the larger significance, the main chance. The oaths, the howled threats and slogans, were the birth cries of a new nation. James predicted that other cotton states would follow South Carolina's example, and that very soon a new government would be organized. He would play a preeminent role. In a matter of weeks, a long-held dream could become a reality. Power would be hers for the taking.

  Another burst of fireworks splashed her face with scarlet light. Star shells whined skyward and exploded over Sullivan's Island, briefly illuminating the ramparts of the fort. Her face wrenched.

  Then, superimposed on an imaginary picture of Billy Hazard, she saw someone equally familiar, standing a few yards away.

  "Forbes." Clutching her secession bonnet, she fought toward him. "Forbes!"

  "Mrs. Huntoon," he said with that exaggerated courtesy he displayed when they met in public. He bowed. She smelled the bourbon on him, mingled with his male odor. It increased her excitement, but tonight wasn't a suitable occasion for that kind of indulgence.

  "Forbes, it's urgent that we speak," she whispered. "Tomorrow — as soon as possible. Orry has cleared the way for Billy and my sister to be married. I can't abide that. I won't permit it."

  A moment earlier Forbes LaMotte had looked drunkenly genial. Now his mouth took on the appearance of a sword cut across his face. More skyrockets went off, bells and cannon created a din. He had to lean close to hear what she said next.

  "South Carolina has taken action. I think it's time we did, too."

  His relaxed, sleepy smile returned. "Indeed it is," he murmured. "I am at your disposal."

  58

  On the morning of January 25, 1861, Captain Elkanah Bent arrived in New Orleans. He was hastening to the only real home he knew, Washington. He had arranged a transfer just in time. The situation in the country was critical and deteriorating more each day. He was sure the War Department was preparing promotion lists and reorganizing for impending conflict. Or they would be as soon as that doughface Buchanan vacated the White House.

  Today Bent wore a new and expensive civilian outfit. He had purchased the clothes in Texas right after making his decision to stop over in New Orleans for twenty-four hours. He felt it wouldn't be prudent to flaunt his Army uniform in such a pro-Southern city. By reliable report, Louisiana would soon secede, joining the five other cotton states that had already left the Union. People up North were referring to those states as the Gulf Squadron. It had a military sound, belligerent. That pleased him.

  Strolling up Bienville, he savored the fragrance of bitter coffee from a cafe. Good coffee was just one of the city's worldly delights he intended to sample during this brief visit.

  He counted himself lucky to get out of Texas when he did. There, too, secession was inevitable, and those in charge of the Department of Texas were clearly sympathetic to the South. Old Davey Twiggs, department commander, and Bob Lee, who had returned from Virginia last year to resume command of the Second Cavalry, were just two potential traitors in a command riddled with them.

  He had been fortunate to get out of Texas for other reasons. He had admittedly botched the attempt to eliminate Charles Main, and he was lucky to have escaped a court-martial. With war likely, there could be new opportunities to strike at the Mains and the Hazards. He'd see what the records in Washington revealed. The prospect took some of the sting out of his failure.

  Bent had never satisfied himself about one question: Did Charles know the real reason for his enmity? By now it seemed very unlikely that he did not; Charles and that damnable Orry Main must have exchanged letters on the subject. Letters in which Bent's relationship with Orry and George Hazard had been revealed. If by some remote chance there had been no such correspondence, the secret would certainly come out the moment Charles returned home on leave.

  Once the Mains knew of Bent's continuing appetite for revenge, the Hazards would undoubtedly learn of it, too. But he still saw one advantage for himself. The members of both families would surely assume that his desire would fade or vanish in the turbulence of war. That mistaken assumption would be their undoing.

  As Bent read the national situation, hostilities couldn't be avoided. Charleston was the flash point. The day after Christmas, Anderson's little garrison had made secret preparations and, when night fell, had transferred by boat to Fort Sumter, spiking the guns left behind at Moultrie and burning the carriages. As a result, the palmetto flag was now flying over all the Federal property in and around Charleston, except for the fort Anderson was occupying in the center of the harbor.

  Anderson's garrison was still being permitted to buy fresh meat and vegetables from Charleston markets. But state militiamen were pouring into the city. They were being put to work realigning the guns at Moultrie, Castle Pinckney, and Fort Johnson.

  In Washington during the past weeks Old Buck had purged his cabinet of Southern influence and adopted a harder line. He refused to meet with the South Carolina commissioners who came to the capital to argue for the surrender of Fort Sumter, and he sent their memoranda to the files unread.

  On January 9 the opposing forces had reeled to the brink. Buchanan had dispatched a chartered side-wheeler, Star of the West, to Charleston. The relief vessel carried food, ammunition, and 250 soldiers. She had crossed the bar, and then the cadets from The Citadel who were manning the harbor guns had opened fire.

  Anderson's batteries did not return fire to defend the incoming ship. Hulled once, Star of the West immediately put out to sea again, and the incident was over — except in Washington, where wrangling continued between the government and yet another South Carolina delegation.

  Just a few days ago, Davis and other senators from the Gulf Squadron had left the Capi
tol after delivering farewell speeches whose contrived sentimentality was designed to mask their treason. This very morning on the city dock Bent had heard that Davis and others would soon convene in Montgomery, Alabama, to form a new government.

  How could that government fail to come to blows with Washington? Old Buck wouldn't be President much longer, and the new man, that queer fellow Lincoln, though soft on slavery, was uncompromising about preservation of the Union. War was coming. The future looked splendid.

  In this fine frame of mind, Bent ascended a beautiful black iron stair and knocked at the door of an establishment that had been recommended to him by a gentleman he had met while traveling. When the door opened, he used an assumed name to introduce himself.

  Two hours later, half dressed, he was dragged to the rooms of the proprietress by a huge, ferocious-looking Negro who shoved him into a plush chair, then blocked the door, awaiting the settlement of the dispute.

  "One hundred dollars is outrageous!" Bent declared as he tucked in his shirt and buttoned his sleeves. Here was one place where the authority of his uniform might have served him.

  Seated behind her magnificent desk, Madam Conti appeared relaxed and comfortable in her indigo silk robe with its pattern of embroidered peacocks. She was a large, solid woman, about sixty. Her stunning white hair was exquisitely arranged. Near her beringed hand, incense smoldered inside a tiny brass temple; Oriental objects had been the rage ever since Perry's squadron had sailed into Yedo Bay, Japan.

  "Nevertheless, Monsieur Benton, one hundred dollars is what you must pay. A girl as young as Otille commands a premium price." The woman consulted a scrap of paper. "You also requested several, ah, special services. I can enumerate them for you — if they have slipped your mind. Did she not inform you of the extra charge?"

  "She most certainly did not."

  Madame Conti shrugged. "An oversight. It has no effect upon the price."

  "I refuse to pay, goddamn it. I absolutely refuse."

  Madame Conti greeted the outburst not with anger but with a tolerant smile. Looking past Bent, she said, "Whatever shall we do with him, Pomp?"

  "Keep on treating him like a gentleman," the black rumbled. ''See if he might change his mind."

  Bent's upper lip popped with sweat. He had heard the note of threat in the nigger's remarks. He struggled to maintain a courageous front. Madame Conti's smile didn't waver.

  ''Pour our visitor a little champagne. That might help."

  "It will not," Bent said. She laughed and called for a second glass for herself.

  Bent withheld another retort, attempting to plan his next move. Obviously he couldn't fight his way out of the bordello, nor did he intend to try. He let the situation drift a moment, accepting a glass of excellent French champagne from Pomp. He gulped it, then held the glass out to be refilled. Madame Conti gave the black man a nod of assent.

  The champagne had a calming effect. Bent began to take notice of the elegant office. On walls of red-flocked wallpaper hung more than a dozen large paintings, all lit effectively by mantled gas jets. One huge canvas was a rollicking study of fur trappers on a river raft.

  "That is my pride," the woman declared. "A Westerner named Bingham painted it."

  Her pride was misplaced, Bent thought, downing more champagne. He eyed a portrait of a young woman hanging behind Madame Conti's left shoulder. The features of the beautiful, dark-haired creature were familiar somehow. But he couldn't place her.

  Madame Conti noticed his interest. "Ah, you admire her? She worked here for a time many years ago. She was even more beautiful than my little Otille. And far more expensive."

  Bitch, he thought. Wouldn't let him forget the bill, would she?

  Then, abruptly, he knew where he had seen the exotic face in the painting. It was in one of Charles Main's family daguerreotypes.

  No, just a moment. This woman, smiling her seductive painted smile, wasn't the same Creole beauty whose picture he had seen in Texas. The resemblance was strong but not exact. Sisters, perhaps?

  "Who is she, Madame?"

  Jeweled bracelets twinkled and clinked as the white-haired woman drank champagne. "I don't suppose it hurts to tell you. She was a poor girl who rose very high before she died. She left my employ to become the eminently respectable and respected wife of a rich New Orleans factor."

  "The dusky cast of her skin is enchanting. The painter was inspired."

  "Only by what he saw."

  "You mean her skin was that way naturally?"

  "Yes, Monsieur Benton."

  "I'm fascinated. She creates a lovely romantic image —" He leaned forward slightly; a master schemer, he could be subtle when necessary. "How did her story end — if you know and wish to confide, Madame?"

  She turned her chair, regarding the painted face with affection. "My dear girl had a daughter by her adoring husband after they married, but, alas, the beautiful mother died. In time, before he too succumbed, the loving father had to send the child far away to make a match. She looked as white as you or I, but some in this town knew her mother's background."

  So that was the relationship; mother and daughter. Bent couldn't take his eyes from the painting.

  "And they knew the child was not French or Spanish but octoroon. Years ago, attractive young women of mixed blood were favored creatures. No longer. The furor over slavery has seen to that. Today" — an expressive shrug, a melancholy smile — "being one-eighth Negro, however light the skin, is exactly the same as being all Negro — Monsieur Benton, what is wrong?"

  Bent's hand had jerked, spilling champagne on her fine carpet. "An accident, Madame. My profound apologies."

  He whipped out his kerchief, bending down to mop the rug, a difficult task because of his huge paunch.

  The daughter of a nigger whore connected with that arrogant Main crowd? Obviously they didn't suspect; no woman with nigger blood would be permitted in a group portrait of plantation aristocrats. What a splendid piece of information! He didn't know how he'd use it, or when, but that he would use it he didn't doubt for a moment.

  "Madame, you're quite right. The champagne has a soothing effect." His moist face beamed. "The services of the young lady were extremely satisfying, and I was wrong to quibble over the price. I'll pay in full. I'd even like to give her a handsome tip, if you'll permit it."

  Madame Conti exchanged a look with the huge black man who for several minutes had been cleaning his nails with a long knife. At her faint signal, he slipped the knife out of sight.

  "But of course," she said with a courteous nod.

  A cold rain fell from the Texas sky. A dispirited Charles Main watched the last trunk being lifted and placed with others in the Army ambulance. The trunks belonged to Colonel Lee.

  Five days ago, on February 8, Charles and two enlisted men had left Camp Cooper with urgent dispatches for the regimental commander. They had ridden 165 miles in foul weather and had arrived to find that Lee had been relieved and called back to Washington by direct order of General Scott. No doubt Scott wanted him to declare his intentions — and his loyalty.

  Lee's departure was more evidence of the chaos spreading through the land. Although important border states such as Tennessee and Lee's own Virginia had not yet joined the secession movement, Texas had been out of the Union since the first of the month — against the pessimistic advice of Governor Houston.

  During the hours Charles had been riding with the dispatches, a new Confederate government had been born in Alabama. Jefferson Davis was its provisional president, and its provisional constitution was already drafted.

  President-elect Lincoln was traveling eastward from Illinois by train. He was forced to stop frequently along the way to make exhausting speeches to constituents. In Washington, Senator Crittenden had put forward desperate compromise proposals on slavery, but the effort had failed. With all the cotton-state members gone, it had been easy for the Senate to pass a measure admitting Kansas to the Union as a free state.

  Meantime, M
ajor Anderson's command remained huddled in Fort Sumter, ringed by strengthened batteries and South Carolina gunners itching for a scrap. Charles often wondered if Billy was still on duty at the fort. Anderson had sent several of his men to Washington with dispatches or requests for instructions. Perhaps Billy had been one of them. Charles hoped and prayed his friend would get out of the fort alive.

  In Texas the frontier posts seethed with suspicion and rumors of impending takeovers by state military levies or the Texas Rangers. Although known to be a Southern sympathizer, General Twiggs had four times appealed to Washington for orders. Four times he had received vague and meaningless replies.

  One story, authenticated by a San Antonio paper, seemed to typify the Army's state of turmoil. In January one of the Military Academy's most respected graduates, Pierre Beauregard, had been appointed superintendent. He had held the post less than a week and been removed because Louisiana's secession made him suspect. Men who had bled in Mexico, broken bread together, and shared hardships for years now regarded each other as potential enemies, capable of almost any treachery. It depressed Charles, who was still uncertain about his own decision and his own future.

  Now he waited for Lee in the rain. Nine other officers were waiting with him. Finally the colonel appeared, wearing his talma and forage cap. One by one the officers stepped up to offer a salute and a word of good luck. The last to arrive, and the most junior, Charles was the last to speak.

  "It has been an honor to serve with you, sir."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant."

  "I wish you a safe journey."

  "I don't relish the circumstances that require me to undertake it. I do want to say this to you, however. You're a good officer. No matter what else changes, that won't."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Lee started away. Charles's inner confusion prompted him to disregard protocol. "Colonel?"

  By the side of the ambulance, Lee turned about. "Yes?"

  "Which way will you go, sir? North or South?"