by Джон Джейкс
"Where you want to go, Mist' LaMotte?" the driver called.
"I don't know. Drive up Meeting and I'll decide."
He was weary and bored. That was why he drank so heavily and started fights with tourists. His occasional assignations with Ashton no longer provided much satisfaction. Various local artillery units, eager to add the prestige of the LaMotte name to their roster, were begging him to accept a commission, but he had no interest in the offers. He hated discipline.
He was sufficiently lucid to realize that a peculiar simmering rage was loose within him. He knew his acquaintances recognized that fact. Even Preston, a vicious fighter when the odds were safely in his favor, stayed away from him a good part of the time. Clinging to the hand strap of the swaying carriage, Forbes wondered why he felt so angry and why brawling did little to relieve that anger.
Staring into the rain, he was driven to confront the answer. The one woman he had desired most had rejected him. He had never stopped hating Brett Main for favoring someone else. Paradoxically, he had never stopped wanting her, either.
He sat up suddenly, releasing the strap. Was the hurrying figure real or a figment of his imagination?
No, he wasn't that drunk. He thumped the roof and shouted over the chatter of the rain. "James, pull to the side." Then he leaned out the window and waved.
"Brett? Brett, over here!"
The moment she heard the voice, she recognized it. She turned to see Forbes stumble down from the carriage. He swept off his hat.
"Please permit me to drive you wherever you're going. A lady shouldn't walk in this weather."
That was obvious. But when setting out for the home of a seamstress several blocks away, Brett had assumed she could reach her destination before the shower started. Now the shower had become a downpour. She was getting soaked.
Surely it couldn't hurt to accept his assistance; he was, after all, a gentleman. Impulsively, she closed her dripping parasol and stepped toward the carriage.
She sank onto the plush cushions with a grateful sigh. Forbes closed the door behind her, took a seat opposite, and relayed the address of the seamstress to the Negro driver. The carriage lurched forward.
Forbes settled his hat on his knees. His smile had a sullen, almost angry quality, she realized with a sudden tight feeling in her stomach. His eyes were glassy. She began to regret her decision.
"Haven't seen you for an age, Brett. You look fetching, as always."
"You look fine yourself, Forbes." The words came with difficulty.
He pinched his waistcoat between thumb and forefinger. "Putting on weight, I'm afraid. I reckon that's what comes of spending so many hours in barrooms. Don't have much else to do. Nor much to think of besides you."
"Really, Forbes" — her laugh was uncomfortable, nervous — "we settled that a long time ago."
She glanced out the window on her side. They had gone only a block; the carriage was moving slowly. Good. She'd jump out if he grew boorish.
He watched her silently for a few seconds, his odd, sly smile heightening her tension. Abruptly, he dropped his hat on the cushion and heaved himself over next to her. The carriage springs creaked. His sudden movement somehow transmuted her fright to determination.
"I thought you were being courteous when you made your offer. Don't disillusion me."
"I can't be courteous. I care for you too damn much." He took hold of her wrist. "Brett —"
"Stop it," she said, not in a prudish way, but firmly.
"Afraid I can't do that, sweet." His thumb began to stroke back and forth over the inside of her wrist, just above the ruching on her muslin glove. "I can't keep you out of my mind five minutes, seems like. I would think you'd favor a man who cares for you that deeply."
With her left hand she reached for the handle of the door. "I have to get out."
He seized her shoulders, flinging her back against the wine-colored cushions. "Hell you do," he growled as he brought his mouth down on hers, hurting her.
Through his parted lips poured the smell of his breath, rancid as the fumes from a distillery. His right hand dropped to her bodice. Pinning her with his left side, he mauled her breast and breathed against her chin and throat.
"Jesus, I love you, Brett. Always have —"
"Let go of me!"
"No, damn it." He twisted onto his left hip, flung his right knee over her to pin her to the seat. The pressure of his fingers grew rougher. Through layers of cloth he hurt her nipple. Although she was terrified, she started to work her left hand out of the muslin glove.
"Brett, you don't belong with that sawed-off Yankee soldier. You need a man who's big enough in every respect to give you what a woman —''
With a shriek he jerked away. She had reached across and clawed his cheek. Three nail tracks bled.
It took him a moment to react. He touched his face, drew his hand away, and saw scarlet stains on the frilly cuff of his shirt. That sight focused his rage. Cursing, he again groped for her with both hands. She unfastened the door. It flapped open. Before she could leap out, he seized her right arm. She exclaimed softly, thinking he meant to do her injury. She leaned down, grasped her parasol from the floor, slashed at his head. Once, twice, three times —
"Mist' Forbes, what's wrong down there?"
The old driver guided the vehicle nearer the curb and reined to a halt. On the other side of Meeting, pedestrians gaped at the sight of a respectably dressed white woman struggling with a gentleman in his carriage. Brett was too frightened to worry about appearances. She hit Forbes again, then tore away from him and hurled herself out the door. She missed the step and sprawled in the muddy street.
"Ho, look out!" shouted a drayman, pulling his team aside at the last moment. Passing her with only inches to spare, the heavy wheels flung mud over her face and clothing.
She staggered to her feet, her hat falling off. The rain drenched her again. Forbes hung in the carriage doorway, looking like some demented goblin as he yelled:
"You goddamn bitch —"
She heard no more; she turned and ran.
Shaking, Forbes came to his senses. He realized men and women on the sidewalk were watching him. Someone mentioned his name. He flung himself back inside the carriage and jerked the door shut.
He leaned back, patted his cheek with his handkerchief. The sight of blood infuriated him all over again. He nearly punched a hole in the ceiling with his fist.
"Drive on!"
Fleeing the scene of his humiliation didn't help. He pulled out his flask, remembered it was empty, and hurled it out the window. He hated Brett more than ever. He wished he could throttle her to death, then row out to Sumter and shoot that Yankee son of a bitch she fancied.
Gradually, the sound of the rain and the motion of the carriage soothed him a little. He thought of Ashton, clung to her name and her image like a man clinging to a life preserver.
Ashton was on his side. Ashton would help him get revenge.
That night, hundreds of miles away, Stanley Hazard and Simon Cameron attended a reception for the President-elect.
Three railroad detectives provided by Mr. Pinkerton stood guard outside the doors of the private parlor at Willard's. Inside, cabinet members and guests mingled and talked softly. Lincoln had come down from his rooms a few minutes ago. Stanley had spoken with him. He was not impressed.
He left Lincoln cracking another joke and searched for his patron. He found Cameron in earnest conversation with Chase, the stiff, priggish secretary of the treasury. Of all the cabinet members, Chase was the most outspoken and perhaps the most unswerving on the need to free the Negroes. Stanley found the man's idealism offensive.
At last Cameron broke away and joined Stanley at the champagne bar. The boss looked powerful and important, Stanley thought. And well he might. Exactly as he had planned, Cameron had bargained his convention votes for the post of secretary of war in the new administration.
Cameron drank a little champagne, then tapped a bulge beneath
his coat. "A friend passed me a summary of the inaugural address."
"What are the salient points?"
"About what you'd expect, given his past pronouncements.'' Cameron's voice was pitched low. His eyes kept moving, darting, to make certain no one wandered close enough to overhear. "He refuses to yield on disunion. Says it's unconstitutional and, ultimately, impossible. He'll continue to hold Sumter, but if there's to be war, the Confederacy will have to initiate it. Altogether" — again his eyes shifted, watching — "an undistinguished speech from an undistinguished man, not to say an inadequate one." Cameron murmured the last few words while bending his head to sip champagne.
Inadequate hardly described it, Stanley thought. Tomorrow General Scott would be stationing riflemen on the curbstones and rooftops along Pennsylvania Avenue, to guard against possible insurrection. A shameful beginning for what promised to be an inept administration. With a few exceptions, of course.
Cameron extended his glass for a refill. When he had it, he moved away from the bar, continuing, "But what do you think of the new President?"
Stanley glanced through the crowd to the ugly, angular profile. "A prairie buffoon. Any fellow who pokes you in the ribs and tells stories as coarse as his certainly can't amount to much."
"Precisely. In my opinion, that is the weakest man ever sent to the White House. But that's to our benefit. The power will then devolve to us." Suddenly animated, he signaled with his glass. "Seward, old friend! Just the man I want to see."
The boss rushed away. Soon he was arm in arm with the new secretary of state, whispering to him. Stanley consumed more champagne and basked in the reflected limelight. He was happy to be here, almost deliriously so.
He would have a post in Cameron's department. Isabel would be thrilled with Washington. For his part, Stanley was savoring the thought of power and of the chance to increase his wealth. Insiders always gained from their positions, the boss said. Stanley secretly hoped the rebels would go ahead and provoke war down at Charleston. If they did, the opportunities to make money would increase just that much more.
61
Early the next afternoon, Billy paced outside Major Anderson's office with his forage cap under his arm. He had to wait while the commandant finished a letter apologizing for a practice round that had slammed into the cotton bales at Fort Moultrie. With both the Sumter and South Carolina batteries being tested frequently, accidents were common. After each mishap, the offenders rushed an explanation to the other side. Most of the explanations were elaborately formal, but with accidental war a distinct possibility, Billy supposed too much apology was preferable to too little.
Hart, Anderson's orderly sergeant, appeared with the finished letter. "He'll see you now, sir," the noncom said as he hurried off down the dim, echoing passage.
Billy stepped into the commandant's office, another dingy brick cubicle lit by the stub of a candle. Anderson returned the younger officer's crisp salute with a slow, weary one. Then he pointed to a stool. "Rest yourself, Lieutenant. You won't be resting much during the next few days."
Anderson's fingers showed a tremor as he touched a fat pouch of oiled cloth. "I've written some new advices for General Scott. I'd like you to carry them."
"To Washington, sir?"
"Yes. I want the general to know that in my estimation penetrating the harbor defenses and reinforcing this garrison would now require a force of at least twenty thousand men. There are some other confidential communications in the pouch as well. Pack your kit and be ready in three hours."
Billy's mind reeled. To be released from this dark, oppressive place was what every man in the garrison wanted, though few admitted it. Would he have a chance to spend a little time with Brett before he left Charleston?
"I can be prepared sooner than that, sir."
Anderson shook his head. "Not necessary. Hart will be departing shortly to row over with my letter of apology to Captain Calhoun.
He will also call on Pickens at the Charleston Hotel, to obtain your clearance. Even with the governor's consent, a departure is a touchy business. I'm told that each time a boat puts out from our dock, bands of men swarm to the Battery. They hope it will be Doubleday coming over." After a curt, humorless laugh, Anderson added, "In any case, Hart won't be back for a while. You'll go at dusk or a little later."
"Yes, sir."
"And, Lieutenant—pack everything. Unlike some of the couriers I've dispatched to Washington, you won't be returning." "Sir?"
Pale, Billy stared at his commanding officer. This was crushing news; he would be leaving Brett in a city that might be ravaged by war at any hour. Knowing that, why did the major have a queer half smile on his haggard face? Was Anderson losing his grip?
The major quickly explained. "You are on leave until tomorrow evening, at which time I shall expect you to board a northbound train. Hart has prepared your orders to that effect. You could use the intervening hours to call on your young lady. If you can get a message to her promptly, you might even have sufficient time to marry her. Hart's willing to deliver such a message if you can write it in the next ten minutes."
Billy was speechless. He could hardly believe his good fortune, Anderson noticed.
"Don't look so stunned, Lieutenant. Someone must go. Why not you? I sent Lieutenant Meade home to see his ailing mother in Virginia — this is a much happier set of orders. I do realize I'm treading in the province of your superior, the chief of engineers, but I expect he'll forgive me when I explain the circumstances."
Anderson's gaze grew somber again. "Even with clearance from the governor, you may have trouble getting through the city. That's why I'm keeping you here till it's almost dark."
Billy decided it was time to stop questioning his luck and start capitalizing on it. "Sir, if the schooner could take me to the C.S.C. pier above the Customs House, I could have Cooper Main meet me with a closed carriage. He could drive me to Tradd Street, and Brett and I could slip out of Charleston before daylight."
"You don't want to be married at Main's house?"
"I think it would be safer to travel up to Mont Royal. There's a railway flag stop not far from the plantation."
"Well, whatever you decide, getting through the city will be the hard part. I urge you to keep your revolver fully loaded at all times.''
Billy saluted and pivoted, leaving the commandant staring at the candle with melancholy eyes.
At the boat landing, Anderson shook his hand. ''You're an excellent officer, Lieutenant Hazard. With a few more years of experience, you'll be an outstanding one. Give my regards to your bride."
"Sir, I will. I can't thank you enough —"
"Yes, you can. Get that pouch to Scott. I want him to understand the hazards if he should attempt to storm the bar with a few hundred men in longboats." Anderson's voice grew husky with strain. "I repeat what I have said before. If this country's to be plunged into a bloodbath, the responsibility will be Washington's, not ours."
He stepped back, fading into darkness. "Please get aboard, sir," a voice called from the deck of the little schooner. Billy could just glimpse a face above the binnacle light.
He hurried down the steps while the slack sails flapped in the night wind. An ominous sound, somehow.
"Thank the Lord I was home when Anderson's orderly arrived," Cooper said as Billy jumped to the C.S.C. pier. "Judith's waiting in the carriage."
"Where's Brett?"
"At the house. She wanted to come along, but Judith urged her to stay and pack. She doesn't have all that much time to assemble her trousseau — we'll be on the road well before sunrise. I have already sent a man to Mont Royal. Orry's to have the rector present tomorrow afternoon at one sharp."
"When does the train leave?"
"A little over three hours later. Half past four."
They carried on the conversation as they strode rapidly toward the head of the pier where the carriage was waiting. The fast pace matched Billy's heartbeat. In spite of his tension, he felt exhilarated, hap
py for the first time in months.
"Thank you, Gerd," Cooper said to a stout man who handed him the reins. "I'll drive, Billy. Stay well back from the window. There's always a small crowd loitering at the Customs House, and those buttons on your uniform shine like lanterns."
He was straining to keep his tone light, but Billy could hear an anxious note. Cooper slipped as he mounted the spokes of the front wheel. He grimaced, then completed his climb, saying, "Sometimes not owning slaves is damned inconvenient. You must do everything for yourself. No wonder the institution's lasted."
Billy managed a chuckle as he opened the door on the left side. Judith was seated on the right. He greeted her, at the same time touching the leather dispatch case slung over his left shoulder. The catch was still secure.
Cooper hawed and started the carriage. By the light of a lantern on the warehouse gable, Billy saw tears on Judith's cheek. "What's the matter?" he exclaimed.
"Nothing, nothing." She smiled and cried at the same time. "I'm a ninny to carry on so, but I can't help it. In these times there are so few reasons to be joyful, but this is one." A sniff, a firm shake of her head. "I do apologize."
"Don't. I feel the same way."
"Look sharp," Cooper called. "Larger crowd than usual tonight."
Billy shifted his saber so that he could move more easily. Then he eased his revolver partway out of the holster. Ahead, on the right, men were laughing and talking boisterously. Suddenly one of them shouted, "You, there. Hold up."
Billy's stomach knotted as he felt the carriage slow down. Cooper swore an exasperated oath.
The voices of the men grew louder. Billy hitched over to the center of the seat, the darkest part of the carriage. Obliquely through the right-hand window he could glimpse the front of the Customs House, once Federal property.
The carriage swayed to a stop. Judith held her breath. "State your name and business," said a rough voice.
"My name is Main, I'm a citizen of Charleston, and my business is my own. I'll thank you to release my horse and stand aside."