by Джон Джейкс
Lee shook his head. "I could never bear arms against the United States. But what if it became necessary for me to carry a musket to defend my native Virginia? I had frankly hoped to avoid that kind of question. I thought President Buchanan might restore harmony between the sections by playing on love of country, but he failed. I thought the melting influence of Christianity might resolve the slave issue, but it hasn't. I've owned slaves, and my conscience has tried me because of it. The institution will wither. It should. As for secession, in my view it's nothing but revolution. Yet at this moment, men who are in most respects eminently decent have established a new government on the pillars of secession and slavery, and so I am unsure of the future and of my own reactions as well."
Lee's face looked haggard in the rain. "I'm certain of one thing only. No matter how each man or woman answers the question you asked, I think there will be but one result from what we've allowed the extremists to do to us. Heartbreak. Good-bye, Lieutenant."
He trudged to the front of the ambulance and climbed up beside the driver. The vehicle lurched forward through the mud and rapidly faded into the dreary distance.
Charles walked back to the stockade. Pondering his own confused state of mind, he could only conclude that Lee was right. North and South, both would suffer before this terrible business was done.
Two days later, in San Antonio, old Davey Twiggs surrendered all the Federal posts in Texas to state forces. Men loyal to the Union were urged to depart for the Guif ports and given assurance of safe conduct, though for how long no one was prepared to say.
Charles completed his journey from Fort Mason and arrived at Camp Cooper just an hour before its Union contingent was to pull out. The men were under the command of Captain Carpenter, First Infantry. Some were on horseback, some on foot.
Dirty and exhausted from long hours in the saddle, Charles watched the Ohioans from Company K ride out in a column of twos. One was Corporal Tannen, who had been a private in the skirmish at Lantzman's farm; Charles had pushed for his promotion. Tannen took note of those remaining behind, leaned out to the left, and spat.
"Any man who stays is unfit to wear Army blue." He said it loud enough for all to hear.
"What's that, Corporal?" Charles called.
Tannen returned his stare. "I said if you stay, you're a yellow traitor."
"I seem to have been robbed of my rank," Charles said as he flung off his bear-claw necklace, then his filthy and sweat-blackened hide shirt. Before anyone could react, he cocked his revolver and passed it to an Alabama trooper standing next to him.
"So no one interferes."
The Alabama boy grinned, nodded, and got a better grip on the gun. Charles approached Tannen's horse.
"You helped me once. I was grateful. But your remark cancels that."
Tannen looked down at him. "Good. Fuck you."
Charles reached for him. Tannen tried to lash Charles's face with his rein. Charles caught the rein and whipped it round and round the corporal's left wrist. The horse began to buck.
Tannen drew his saber. Charles twisted it away and flung it out of reach. Then he dragged the Ohioan from his saddle and pounded him until his nose looked like pulped berries. Breathing hard, he spoke to the others who were leaving.
"Pick him up if you want him. I'll kill the next one who calls me a traitor."
He removed his foot from the middle of Tannen's back and stood with his hands at his sides until Tannen was thrown belly down over a horse. Soon the Union men were gone.
An hour later, Charles wrote his resignation. Then he packed. Since there was no regular Army officer left to accept the resignation and report it to Washington, he hammered a nail into the door of his room in the barracks and impaled the paper on the nail. Within minutes he was bound for the Gulf.
Lee might ponder the philosophical subtleties, but his own future had been decided in a far simpler way. Ah, well. He had never been a deep man. Just a hell raiser and a horse soldier. The South might need someone like him as much as it needed philosophers.
He hated leaving Texas, which he had come to love. He thought slavery a foolish system and likely a dying one. But his blood called him home. He pushed his horse hard all the way to the coast.
BOOK FOUR
MARCH INTO
DARKNESS
I tell you there is afire. They have this day set a blazing torch
to the temple of constitutional
liberty, and, please God, we shall
have no more peace forever.
LAWYER JAMES PETIGRU
OF Charleston, during the celebration of secession
DECEMBER 20, 1860
59
Sumter felt more like a prison every day.
Billy occupied a dank, brick-walled room in the officer's quarters along the gorge. The room was doubly dismal because it was dark most of the time. The garrison had almost used up the candles and matches Mrs. Doubleday had purchased in January, one day before she and the other garrison wives went North. Billy had one waxy stub left. He lit it for only a few minutes each day while he added a mark to his improvised calendar — vertical lines scraped into the wall with a fragment of brick. So far in February he had marked the wall twenty-one times.
He no longer saw Brett. He was not one of those detailed to travel over to the city every couple of days, there to purchase some salt pork and vegetables. This reprovisioning was carried out with the sufferance of Governor Pickens, at the urging of some prominent gentlemen of Charleston.
Some other gentlemen, equally prominent, hated the idea of the garrison's receiving food and mail, and said so frequently. One of Brett's letters informed Billy that Rhett of the Mercury was particularly strong about starving the garrison into surrender. Billy suspected the governor had the same objective and was merely pursuing it in a different way. Pickens had refused to permit the forty-three civilian masons and bricklayers to leave Fort Sumter. Presumably they would continue to devour provisions, thus hastening the day when Anderson would have to ask for terms. Several officers were outspoken in saying that the governor was bluffing, that he had no power to issue such an edict. Doubleday argued that the workmen could be dumped ashore in the dead of night if Anderson truly wanted to be rid of them. He didn't say it to Anderson's face, however, and the commandant, sensitive to the immense danger in any confrontation with local authorities, didn't push for a test of the question.
Brett reported that the provision detail marched to and from the Charleston market with loaded muskets. Crowds followed the soldiers, and now and again someone yelled Doubleday's name. He was the most hated man in the fort, a known Black Republican. If he ever set foot in the city, she predicted, he would be mobbed and hanged. So, like Billy, Doubleday remained a prisoner in the harbor.
Billy kept as busy as he could. When the masons under his command finished bricking up the unused windows in the second-tier casemates, Foster put them all to work on the main gate. A thick wall of stone was mortared into place on the inside, with just a single, iron-covered bolt hole left in the center. As soon as wall and bolt hole were done, Anderson ordered a twenty-four-pound howitzer moved up to cover the new, smaller entrance.
Everyone in the fort had fallen into a kind of stupor. Working hours were long; tension heightened normal tiredness. The toll was particularly heavy on Captains Seymour and Doubleday. They alternated as officers of the day and spent every other night awake.
The seriousness of the situation made the soldiers more candid, less concerned with protocol. This was demonstrated one afternoon when Doubleday and Billy watched from the parapet as a small schooner warped in to a wharf on Morris Island. The schooner was carrying railroad plate that would be spiked to the slanted timber face of a battery under construction on Cummings Point, little more than twelve hundred yards away.
"Look at that," Doubleday exclaimed. "We're giving them all the time in the world to place their guns and bring up their ammunition."
It was true. From Moultrie, now he
avily fortified with cotton bales and sandbags, all the way around to Cummings Point, cannon menaced the harbor fort. Their state artillery crews practiced regularly. Right this moment Billy could see men scurrying around a dozen guns while above them strange flags with palmetto or pelican devices fluttered in the sunshine.
Like most others in the garrison, Billy found Major Anderson a decent, conscientious man — if rather old and pious. He felt compelled to respond to the implied criticism.
"If the major tried to stop it, he might plunge this whole country into a shooting war. I wouldn't want that responsibility, sir."
"Nor I," Doubleday snapped. "Believe me, I appreciate the dilemma, but it doesn't change the fact that hesitation deepens our danger."
"Do you think that peace conference will help matters?" Billy asked. The state of Virginia had issued the call for the conference, and ex-President Tyler had convened it at Willard's Hotel in Washington.
But some important states, including Michigan and California, had refused to send delegates.
Doubleday's answer to the question was blunt: "No. In my opinion we can't save the Union and slavery too." He thumped the parapet with his fist. "I wish the major would forget his orders for an hour and let us reduce those batteries. If we don't, we'll soon be surrounded by a ring of fire."
A ring of fire. An apt term, Billy thought as he watched stevedores continuing to unload the schooner's cargo. South Carolina guns were trained on Sumter from every direction except seaward. Wasn't it inevitable that someone, impetuously if not on direct order, would discharge one of those pieces at the fort and start a war?
Brett's next note confirmed the impending danger. War fever was running high in Charleston. Doubleday and others in the garrison assumed this was why President Davis moved forcefully to take over the Charleston batteries in the name of the new government. Davis also dispatched official Confederate emissaries to Washington to sue for a surrender of the disputed property.
It was from Anderson himself, a few nights later, that Billy heard one more surprising piece of news. "Davis is sending his own officer to command the batteries." The major sighed. "Beauregard."
They stood by one of the ten-inch columbiads on the barbette. Half of Sumter's forty-eight usable guns were mounted in the open, the other half in the casemates below. About fifty yards off the fort, the Nina was passing. She was one of the pair of guard steamers the state kept on constant patrol in the harbor. Sharpshooters at her stern recognized Anderson, hailed him, and flung mock salutes. The tall, hollow-eyed commander remained motionless.
''Captain Beauregard of Louisiana?" Billy said.
"Brigadier General Beauregard now. Confederate States of America. When I taught artillery at the Academy in thirty-six and thirty-seven, he was one of my best pupils. He was so good, I retained him as an assistant instructor after he graduated." The major's gaze drifted to the iron battery rapidly nearing completion on Cummings Point. "I expect we'll soon see a more professional placement of many of the guns."
Then Anderson swung to face his subordinate. Sunset light falling over Charleston's rooftops and steeples emphasized the lined look of his face. "But I've been meaning to inquire about your young lady, Lieutenant. Is she still in the city?"
"Yes, sir. I get a letter every day or so."
"The two of you still want to marry?"
"Very much, sir. But that doesn't appear practicable right now."
"Don't be too sure. As you know, Captain Foster doesn't wish to see you gentlemen from the engineers do line service" — all the engineering lieutenants had volunteered as officers of the guard, but Foster had vetoed the idea — "so when your work is finished, I shall keep your situation in mind."
Billy's hope soared. Yet at the same time he felt another pull. "That's good of you, sir, but I wouldn't want to leave if there were to be hostilities."
"There will be no hostilities," Anderson whispered. "None of which we initiate in any case. Can you imagine the catastrophic results if Americans were to open fire on other Americans? That kind of collision will not take place because of any action of mine, and I'm not ashamed to say I fall on my knees every night and beg God to help me keep that vow."
The contrast with Doubleday's simmering pugnacity was clear. Billy watched the sun fading from the roof peaks and turned his mind to the hope Anderson had held out. He hardly dared think about it because of the great possibility of disappointment.
Slowly he gazed around the harbor, picking out the various batteries on the sand and mud flats. He identified each in terms of its armament: columbiads, mortars, twenty-four- and thirty-two- and even forty-two-pounders.
A ring of fire. Waiting to be ignited by order or mischance. As the sun sank, he felt a renewed, almost overwhelming pessimism.
That same evening Orry stepped off a river schooner at the Mont Royal landing. Twenty minutes later he joined Charles in the library.
"What's the situation in Charleston?" the younger man asked as he poured two glasses of whiskey.
"Bad. Business is stagnating. The merchants are starting to squeal."
"Are people leaving?"
"On the contrary. The city's never seen so many tourists. But they're spending only what they must. The same goes for the home folk."
"Can't say it surprises me. Who wants to throw money away when civil war may erupt any minute, and two weeks from now bread could cost twenty dollars a loaf?"
With a smile that was more of a grimace, Charles sank back into a chair and flung one leg over the side. His homecoming had been pleasant for a day or two, but very quickly that sense of enjoyment had left him. He and Orry had discussed Elkanah Bent at some length, and although few new facts were added to what Charles already knew, he was once again depressed by the magnitude of the man's hate. Surely it would burn itself out if war erupted. In any case, he was reasonably certain their paths would never cross again.
Bent wasn't the only cause of his malaise. He missed the West and, to his surprise, no longer felt entirely at home in his native state. He didn't dare admit that he could think of but one antidote for his uneasiness: fighting.
"The news gets worse," Orry remarked after sipping from his glass. "There is a considerable amount of bad feeling about the new government. When forming it, Davis appears to have ignored South Carolina."
Charles digested that, then put the subject aside. He asked, "How is everyone at Tradd Street holding up?"
"Cooper's doing as well as can be expected, considering that the cargo ship is now a lost cause and part of his land has been commandeered for another iron battery."
"I gather it was a choice between consenting or facing the possibility of a mob burning down the yard. Judith and Brett are looking after Cooper, but he's pretty despondent. His worst fears have been realized.
"Did you see Ashton?"
"No. I'm told James is thick with Governor Pickens, and despite Montgomery's evident disdain for South Carolinians, they say James is maneuvering for a post there. Oh, and one more thing — I have it on good authority that all these war preparations have left the state dead broke."
"What about that seven-hundred-thousand-dollar loan' they're trying to place?"
"No takers."
"Well, maybe things'll veer back to normal somehow. Maybe the issue of the fort will be settled peaceably."
"President Davis has said he'll take Sumter by negotiation or he'll take it by force. Lincoln will be inaugurated in a couple of weeks — perhaps then we'll have some clue as to which it will be."
The two former soldiers stared at one another in the darkening library, neither in doubt about the outcome that was wanted by those who were in control of the state.
Some forty-eight hours later, Huntoon was standing at the rail of the guard steamer Nina. He held a plate of chicken salad in one hand, a glass of Tokay in the other.
A party of thirty gentlemen had come aboard for this sunset cruise to inspect the disputed fort. On the afterdeck a buffet had been spread b
eneath a striped awning. The food had been prepared by a select committee of ladies, of which Ashton had contrived to become a prominent member. Half a dozen slaves from as many households had been ordered out to staff the serving area.
The wind blew briskly from the northeast, promising a chilly February night. As Huntoon munched away, Nina completed a turn in the main ship channel and put in toward the city, white water purling off her paddles.
"You know, Governor," Huntoon remarked to the man standing next to him, "the lack of decisive action is becoming an irritant to many citizens."
"My hands are tied," Pickens retorted. "General Beauregard will be here soon, and as far as the interim is concerned, President Davis has let me know in unmistakable language that he is the one in charge, not I."
"Hmmm." Huntoon sipped his wine. "I thought the palmetto state seceded to preserve its sovereign rights. Have we already surrendered them to another central government?"
Pickens glanced over his shoulder, apprehensive about eavesdroppers. "I wouldn't speak so loudly — or so critically. Not if you still hope to earn yourself a place in Montgomery."
"I certainly do. It appears to me that men of principle and courage are sorely needed down there. We must force the issue."
"James, you're too precipitous," the governor began, but the younger man immediately interrupted.
"Nonsense, sir. If we don't act, others will. Yesterday I heard serious discussion of a new secession movement. Some influential planters in this state are talking of pulling away from the Davis government and petitioning Great Britain to make South Carolina a protectorate."
"That's preposterous," Pickens exclaimed, but his voice had a nervous note in it. And with good reason. Lately, his friend and colleague in secession, Bob Rhett, had heard rumors of a reconstruction plan that Stephen Douglas was promoting in a last-ditch effort to save the Union. The governor wanted no part of lunatic schemes to establish a British colony, but neither did he want reconciliation.