Heaven and Hell: The North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  Charles got the idea that Sherman had strong, largely negative views about Indians, yet did not want to become involved in making policy that affected them. “Sheriffs of the nation,” that was Sherman’s definition of the Army’s role. Pope was more of an activist. He had insisted that emigrant trains organize before leaving jumping-off points such as Leavenworth. Otherwise, he said, his regiments wouldn’t be responsible for them.

  At the sutler’s, Charles picked up a letter from Duncan. “Why, he’s a whole lot closer than when I left. They transferred him to Fort Leavenworth in January. Let’s hurry up and sell those horses.”

  By the first of June all the animals were gone, having fetched just over two thousand dollars for the company. The traders rode east and, at Topeka, banked their money, each man keeping fifty dollars for personal expenses. On the winter count Wooden Foot painted three sacks bearing dollar signs. He and Charles shook hands, Charles hugged Boy, and they agreed to rendezvous on the first of September.

  With a sly look, Wooden Foot said, “Bound anyplace ’sides Leavenworth? Case I need you, understand.”

  “Oh”—Charles settled in Satan’s saddle—“maybe St. Louis. Have a barber work me over.” His beard had grown long and thick. “Take in a show. I met that actress, remember.”

  “Mmm, that’s right. Nearly slipped my mind.” Charles smiled. “The saucy freethinker who doesn’t give a snap if people scorn her for invitin’ a gent to supper.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You been so impatient, I figured you had somethin’ in mind. So it’s that there Augusta.”

  Suddenly bleak, Charles said, “Augusta was my son’s mother. She’s dead. I’ve never mentioned her name.”

  “Not woke up you haven’t. You talk in your sleep, Charlie. I figured it was a happy dream. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I want you to feel good. You’re my friend. It was damn lucky we met up at Jefferson Barracks.”

  “I feel the same.”

  “Say hello to your youngster and don’t get yourself kilt in no tavern fights.”

  “Not me,” Charles said, and rode away.

  A road ran due north from Leavenworth City to the military reservation. Charles cantered along this two-mile stretch, passing neat farm plots and the headquarters of Russell, Majors and Waddell, a huge enclave of parked wagons, piled-up freight, penned oxen, noisy and profane teamsters. The river flowed along out of sight under the high bluff on his right.

  The ten-square-mile post contained department headquarters, barracks and support facilities for six companies, and the large quartermaster’s depot serving the forts to the west. Colonel Henry Leavenworth had established the original cantonment in 1827, on the Missouri’s right bank near its confluence with the Kaw.

  Jack Duncan’s quarters were typical of Western military posts. Spartan rooms furnished with an old sheet-iron stove and whatever furniture the occupant brought, bought, or built from crates and lumber. Normally, the brigadier would have lived in smaller space—“Old Bedlam,” the bachelor officers’ quarters—but he’d ranked a married captain and thus moved him, his wife, and baby out of married quarters, so that he and Maureen and Gus could move in. This happened frequently to junior officers; the term for it was “the bricks falling in.”

  Charles couldn’t believe how much his son had grown since last autumn. Little Gus walked around Duncan’s parlor so fast, swaying, that Charles was constantly starting to dive for the boy, to catch him if he fell. It amused Duncan.

  “No need for that. He’s damn steady.”

  Charles quickly saw this was so. “He doesn’t know me, Jack.”

  “Of course not.” Duncan held out his hands. “Gus, come to Uncle.” The boy clambered to his lap without hesitation. Duncan pointed to the visitor. “That’s your father. Want to go to your father?”

  Charles reached out to take him. Gus screamed.

  “I think it’s your beard,” Duncan said.

  Charles saw no humor in it. He struggled for over an hour to tempt Gus onto his lap. But after he finally did, he soon had him clinging to his thumbs and laughing as he bounced him up and down on his knee. Maureen appeared from the kitchen and expressed disapproval. Charles didn’t stop.

  Duncan leaned back and lit a pipe. “You look good, Charles. The life agrees with you.”

  “I miss Augusta and always will. Apart from that, I’ve never been happier.”

  “This Adolphus Jackson must be a fine fellow.”

  “The best.” Charles cleared his throat. “Jack, I need to say something else about Augusta. Well, actually, about a woman I met in St. Louis. An actress in one of the theaters there. I’d like to pay her a call. But I don’t want to dishonor Gus’s memory.”

  Soberly, Duncan said, “You’re a decent and considerate man. There are many who wouldn’t even worry. I don’t expect you to live like an anchorite the rest of your life. Augusta wouldn’t expect it either. A man needs a woman, that’s a fact of life. Go to St. Louis as soon as you want.”

  “Thank you, Jack.” He beamed at Maureen, still hovering near and frowning over his rag-bag wardrobe, his tangled beard, his way of handling his son. Charles just ignored it.

  “Life’s too good to be believed,” he said, gazing at his son, whose features had begun to favor his mother.

  Duncan smiled. “I’m glad. We all went long enough feeling the other way in the late unpleasantness.”

  Up went the curtain. The players joined hands and stepped to the apron, Trump pulling the others along and then snatching off his woodcutter’s cap. He waved the cap to acknowledge the applause, thus drawing attention from the others in the company. He unpinned his good-luck chrysanthemum from his coarse tunic and tossed the wilted flower, more brown than white, into the audience. An obese man caught it, examined it, threw it away.

  The company bowed again. Then Trump took a third, solo, bow. The woman playing his wife exchanged long-suffering looks with Willa, who was prettily dressed in a high-waisted gown for her role as one of the young lovers. The play was Molière’s Physician in Spite of Himself, which had been “amplified and emended by Mr. Trump,” according to posters outside. It seemed to Charles, standing up and clapping hard in the front box at stage left, that the unraveling of the farcical plot about a woodcutter pretending to be a famous doctor had stopped completely at least four times while Sam Trump performed comic monologues that didn’t sound like the rest of the play; one described hotels with peculiar French names. The largely male audience roared, apparently understanding some local references.

  Charles really didn’t care how much Trump had rewritten Molière. Like most of those out front, he was taken with Willa Parker’s stage presence. From her first entrance, she’d captured everyone. Not with conventional beauty but with some intangible power that drew the eye and held it when she was on stage. Maybe all great performers had that quality.

  He extended his hands over the rail, still clapping. The movement drew Willa’s attention to the box. Charles had paid for a bath and beard trim and had bought an inexpensive brown frock coat and matching trousers. Willa saw him, recognized him, and reacted with what he perceived as surprise, then pleasure.

  Charles nodded and smiled. Suddenly Willa’s glance shifted to a box on the opposite side. An empty box, though the curtain still moved, stirred by someone leaving.

  The stage curtain rolled down, revealing painted messages about restaurants and shops. The applause died. The audience of men and a very few ladies with escorts began to file out. Charles wondered what, or who, had brought that flash of anxiety to Willa’s face.

  Eager and surprisingly nervous, he hurried around to the stage entrance, where he’d stopped the teamster from beating his horse last year. He handed the doorkeeper half a dollar, being pushed from behind by other gentlemen equally intent on going inside. Because of his height, Charles could look over most of the well-wishers, stagehands, and performers backstage.

 
He saw Sam Trump at the entrance to a corridor leading to dressing rooms. In order to visit anyone, people had to pass Trump and compliment him.

  Charles did so enthusiastically. Eyes glassy with joy, Trump said, “Thank you, dear boy, thank you.” Brown dye trickled from behind his ears. “Yours is a familiar face. Was it Boston? I have it! Cincinnati.”

  “St. Louis. I have a beard now.” He extended his hand “Charles Main.”

  “Of course. I remember it clearly.” He didn’t. “Frightfully glad you caught us tonight. I’m anticipating sold-out houses starting tomorrow.” His eyes had already hopped over Charles’s shoulder, hunting the next admirer. Charles slipped by, smelling sweat on Trump but no spirits. Willa must have succeeded in drying him out.

  All the dressing-room doors were open except the last on the right. He suspected that was hers, since a short, neatly dressed man was already waiting outside.

  As Charles approached, the man turned. Instantly, Charles recognized the unnaturally stiff posture, the trimmed goatee and waxy mustache points, the shoes with a high polish, the clothes without a wrinkle.

  Willa’s admirer was the man who’d kept him out of the Army. Captain Harry Venable.

  21

  CHARLES’S NERVES WOUND TIGHT as he walked up to Harry Venable. The dapper officer apparently didn’t recognize him, though he understood Charles’s intent. Charles read the lettering painted on the door. MRS. PARKER. He stepped forward to knock and Venable slipped in front of him.

  “Excuse me. Mrs. Parker’s engaged.”

  Charles looked down into the glacial eyes, tilting his head to exaggerate the height difference. “Fine. Shall we let her tell me that?” He reached over Venable’s shoulder and knocked.

  Venable turned scarlet. Willa called out, asking him to be patient a moment. Venable said, “What the hell are you smiling about?”

  “Handsome Harry Venable”—Charles began rubbing the knuckles of his left hand—“West Point class of ’59.”

  Flustered, Venable tried to identify the bearded stranger. Charles continued, “Last time we met, you had some helpers. I see you haven’t any now. If there’s some sort of dispute, perhaps we can settle it fairly this time.” His teeth gleamed in his beard but the smile wasn’t friendly. He kept rubbing his knuckles. Venable recognized him.

  Then the door opened. All in a rush, Willa seized him and hugged him. “Charles! I couldn’t believe it when I saw you in the box—” She stepped back, gripping his arms while she studied him. She wore a pastel wrapper, an outer layer of gauzy material with opaque satin beneath. Delicate transparent butterflies decorated the gauze. Although tightly belted, the gown didn’t quite hide her cleavage. A spot of cold cream glistened on her nose. With strands of her silver-blond hair hanging free, she looked unkempt and absolutely lovely.

  “Here, do come in while I take off the rest of this make-up.” As she tugged him into the dressing room she dabbed a cloth behind her ear; it came away orange.

  Through this, Venable stood rigid, shoulders back, unable to conceal his fury. Good actress that she was, Willa smiled and spoke to him graciously. “Colonel, I’m so sorry to refuse again. Mr. Main and I have a long-standing engagement. I’m sure you understand.”

  She closed the door.

  “I have a long-standing engagement to beat the hell out of that little toad. He’s the one who recognized me at Jefferson Barracks.”

  “Well, he’s still stationed there.” Willa snatched pins from the dressing table and began pinning up her hair. The small room was a confusion of costumes, personal clothing, make-up pots and brushes, playscripts, all the clutter increased by its reflection in the table mirror. “He saw the play four nights ago and he’s been hounding me ever since. Oh, Charles, you’ve been gone so long.”

  “It’s a long way to the Indian Territory.” He found himself gazing into her blue eyes with more intensity than he planned.

  “I know. And I thought you’d never get back. When I saw you, halfway through the first act, I nearly walked into that bench.”

  “I didn’t think you saw me until the curtain call.”

  “Oh, long before that. I kept dropping lines.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “You aren’t supposed to notice.” On tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, then hugged him again. Her body felt very soft and ripe beneath the butterfly gauze. “May we have supper?”

  “Absolutely.” He grinned. “No snails this time.”

  “All right. Wait for me in the hall. I’ll be ready in two minutes.” She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice.

  In the hall, he saw no sign of Venable. It was a relief. He felt too grand to interrupt the evening with a brawl. He knew that, one to one, he could easily beat the small man, so a fight would mean an inevitable load of guilt afterward.

  Just before Charles and Willa left the theater, she waved to Sam Trump standing in the wings with Prosperity, the theater cat, in his arms. Trump broke off his conversation with a stagehand and nodded to acknowledge them. He gave Charles a peculiar stare, then watched them as they vanished through the Olive Street door.

  On the sidewalk, something made Charles stop. She said, “What is it? Oh.” She saw him too, across the street in the shadow cast by the wooden Indian chief in front of the tobacconist’s. Discovered, Venable executed a right face and hurried around the corner.

  Willa shivered. “What a strange man.”

  “Maybe he won’t show up again, now that I’m here.”

  “Back at the dressing room there was a moment when he looked ready to murder you, Charles.”

  “He tried it once. Didn’t get away with it.” He reached over to pat the mittened hand on his right arm. “I’m for supper. The New Planter’s House?”

  “Why not? It’s convenient. I’ve moved there. Yes, out of the scene loft.” They began walking arm in arm through the night streets. “The playhouse has been in the black since February. Not by much, but in the black. The company has established a local following, so the hotel management offered me rooms at a reduced rate. Evidently Mr. Trump and Mrs. Parker are now welcome all over town.”

  He chuckled; the faint cynicism he heard reminded him of her maturity. He remarked on it as they sat in the familiar dining room, both of them with juicy venison steaks. This time, he’d ordered.

  “You’re flattering me,” she began.

  “No. Telling the truth. Not only are you very—welï—worldly for someone your age, but you’re brighter than most men I know.”

  A little gesture deprecated the praise. “If it’s at all true, and I’m not sure it is, maybe it’s because I grew up in the theater. Knowing plays made me hungry for other kinds of books. And my father was liberal about education for girls. He believed in it.”

  They fell to discussing what had happened to her since their last meeting. Trump’s St. Louis Playhouse had assembled its permanent company. “Actors are now willing to sign contracts for a season, because I’ve convinced them Sam won’t drink up the profits.” The company had four plays in repertory and was starting to think about touring. “Do you know there isn’t a decent theater between here and Salt Lake City? I should imagine that all those new towns going up along the railroad would be ideal for a traveling company with its own tent.”

  “And the Army posts, too,” he said. A waiter poured rich dark coffee from a silver pot. “You do love the life, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. But—here I go, brazen again.” Her cheeks colored as she gazed at him. “I thought about you often during the winter.”

  That gaze ignited something in him. He knew he should retreat; could not.

  “I thought about you, Willa.”

  She drew her hands into her lap. Very quietly, she said, “I don’t know what you do to me. I’m shaking like an ingénue making her first entrance. I can’t drink this coffee. I don’t want anything more.” A long pause. “Would you escort me up to my rooms?”

  “Yes. Gladly.”

  A
nd so, much sooner than he’d ever anticipated, it happened to them, in the small bedroom dimly lit by gaslight from the adjoining sitting room. She moaned a little, expectant, as their hands worked, strewing clothes everywhere. While she unpinned her silver-and-gold hair and shook it out, Charles gently, carefully touched one small, firm breast, then the other. “Oh, I’m so glad there’s you in this world, Charles,” she said, moving beneath him, drawing him down. She ran her palm round and round on his chest, kissed his throat, sought his mouth. He felt tears of happiness on her cheeks.

  “I’m not altogether a scarlet woman,” she whispered. “There’s been but one other man, and that only twice, from curiosity. Each time was a botch, so I’m not experienced. I hope this—”

  “Hush,” he said, kissing her. “Hush.”

  She was soft and thick and golden where he entered her. She arched high as they found the rhythm together. Her heels and calves held him, and he lost every worry about entanglements and their consequences. He thought of nothing but the ardent, open warmth of this singular and passionate young woman who inspired him to love with all of his body and mind.

  Abruptly, wakefulness returned. He didn’t know where he was. He thrashed; turned; saw the gaslit sitting room through the half-open door. His movement roused her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I was caught in a dream.”

  Tenderly, she brought her naked warmth against his side. Kissed his shoulder. “Was it bad?”

  “I think so. It’s slipped away already.”

  After a pause she said, “You called out several times. A name.” Another pause. “Not mine.”

  Upset, he struggled up on his elbow. “No, no,” she said. “It’s all right, Charles. You need to talk about it. There’s something I need to talk about, too. Tomorrow,” she murmured, drawing his back against her bare breasts, reaching over to close and softly stroke his eyes.

  In the early morning hours, for the sake of propriety, he dressed and left the hotel. He walked boldly, even noisily, from the staircase to the lobby doors. The clerk, leaning on his palm, opened one eye. Because Charles acted as though he had nothing to hide, the clerk immediately went back to dozing.