Heaven and Hell: The North and South Trilogy (Book Three)

by John Jakes

  The revolver roared. The horses whinnied and bucked. Foote took the bullet in his left thigh, blown back off the limb and out of sight behind the Spanish moss. “Foote,” Madeline cried, running past the horses to reach him. Before she could, the rider nearest the tree raced his mount under the lowest branches. Another roar reverberated. Madeline jerked to a halt. “Foote!”

  “Stop that other one,” shouted the Klansman with the twin revolvers. Jack Jolly tore off his hood and aimed at Prudence, who had dashed outside after the second shot. The disfiguring scar showed white on his face.

  Jolly was momentarily hesitant about putting a bullet in a white woman. His hesitation allowed Prudence to seize the bell rope. LaMotte’s shout went unheard in the clangorous ringing. Another man cried, “That’s done it. Let’s go.”

  Eyes glassy with confusion, LaMotte shouted at Madeline: “You have twenty-four hours. Clear out. Everything. This teacher, your nigger militia—”

  Something inside Madeline broke. She ran at LaMotte’s horse again, caught hold of the headstall, and yelled at him in the voice of a dock hand. “The hell I will. This is my land. My home. You’re nothing but a pack of cowards dressed for a music hall. If you want me off Mont Royal, kill me. That’s the only way you can get rid of me.”

  The horse of the Klansman at the left of the line began to stamp. LaMotte threw anxious looks at his men. Jolly was enraged. “If you’re scared to kill a nigger woman, I’m not.” He pointed both Leech and Rigdon’s at Madeline, grinning. “Here’s a one-way ticket to Hell Station on the devil’s railroad.”

  The hooded man next to him grabbed and lifted Jolly’s arms an instant before the revolvers went off. One bullet tore into the shakes of the roof. The other sped high in the dark. The Klansmen were now in panic, but scarcely more frightened than Madeline, who’d flung herself back against the whitewashed house, certain that one of the bullets would find her.

  “I’ll not have it,” said the man who’d interfered with Jolly.

  Hearing him for the first time, Madeline registered astonishment. “Father Lovewell? My God.”

  “I’ll not sink to this,” he said. Jolly turned the pistols on him. Undeterred, the hooded priest grabbed his arms again. “Stop it, Jolly. I’ll not condone murdering women, even a colored—”

  “You pious fucker,” Jolly cried, wrenching one arm free. He aimed at Father Lovewell’s hood. Again the Episcopal priest struck Jolly’s arm before the revolver discharged. The bullet plowed under the belly of Father Lovewell’s mare, raising a spurt of dust. Out in the dark, answering the bell, men were shouting.

  Father Lovewell snatched a revolver away from Jolly. Jolly aimed his remaining gun. His skittish horse reared, forcing him to delay his shot. With both hands steadying the piece he held, Father Lovewell pulled the trigger.

  Jack Jolly stood up in his saddle, then slumped forward. Blood darkened the front of his sateen robe and leaked down his mount’s flank. The other Klansmen were totally disorganized; freedmen could be heard running and hallooing.

  Des LaMotte looked bilious as he backed his horse and yanked its head toward the end of the house. He raced away. The other Klansmen jostled each other trying to follow. Jolly’s horse galloped off last, its dead rider wobbling and bouncing and threatening to fall.

  Madeline’s legs felt weak. She pressed her hands against the whitewashed wall to support herself. Bitter powder smoke choked her. The torchlight faded as the Klansmen galloped down the lane.

  “Are you all right? Who fired shots?” That was Andy, charging in from the road to the slave cabins.

  Madeline’s nerve collapsed suddenly; shock shook her. Hair straggled in her eyes as she ran toward the darkness under the tree. “Foote. Oh, poor Foote—”

  Before she reached him, she had to turn away, violently sick.

  At the edge of the dark marsh, by torchlight, they weighted Jack Jolly’s body with stones and slid it under the water.

  “They shot him, and he fell right by the house. That’s the story,” LaMotte said, hoarse. “We couldn’t bring him out because they were swarming all over us. Don’t worry, his kin will never go to Mont Royal to collect the body.”

  “And we aren’t going back either,” Father Lovewell said.

  “Oh yes we are,” LaMotte said. “I take the blame for what happened. I never imagined she’d have a guard posted. But I won’t be whipped by a woman. A nigger woman at that. She shamed my cousins. Destroyed them—”

  “Des, give it up. Father Lovewell’s right.” It was the first time Randall Gettys had spoken.

  “If that’s the kind of Southerner you are, all right,” LaMotte said. His face was nearly as red as his hair. He was furious, because months of delay had culminated in a bungled night’s work. But he wouldn’t quit. “She’s not going to stay on the Ashley and flaunt herself. She’s going to die. I’ll hide out a while: Then I’ll go back alone if the rest of you are too yellow.”

  No one said anything. They threw their hissing torches into the brackish water and dispersed, leaving Jack Jolly submerged, with darting fish and frogs and a three-foot baby alligator for company. The alligator swam close to the body, opened its jaws, and with needle teeth began to feed on the face.

  We buried Foote. Cassandra inconsolable. She lost Nemo when Foote came back. Now this. Nothing I said helped. Late this afternoon, we found her gone. …

  … To C’ston—and not eagerly. With a cold demeanor, Cooper listened to my story, and my assertion that Prudence and his own daughter would corroborate it. He was clearly angered by M-L’s proximity to danger, but he contained it—then. As for the Klan visit, he advised me curtly to drop the matter because no Carolina juryman would convict them. Further, Des’s family would certainly find witnesses to prove he was elsewhere at the time. Father Lovewell’s presence would never be believed, witnesses or no. The authorities can get nothing from Captain Jolly’s trashy kinfolk. No doubt hearing of his involvement, they have already left their campground and vanished from the district.

  Cooper said he was sure there would be no more incidents. How he could be so certain, I did not know. But his tone permitted no argument. Quite suddenly, he began to harangue me about Marie-Louise. I held fast saying she would continue to stay at Mont Royal as long as she wished. That incited a burst of ugly recriminations. Before they grew as bad as last time, I fled.

  Orry, I don’t know what to do. L am sick of fear, and the oppression of fear. …

  “Yes, I understand,” Jane said when Madeline expressed her feelings. “My people lived with that kind of fear for generations. But I don’t know that Mr. Cooper’s right about the Klan giving up. Do you remember when Mr. Hazard visited, right after the war? I said I thought there would be many more years of battle before a last victory. I still believe it.”

  “I could go to General Hampton. He promised to help me.”

  “How can he help? He hasn’t any troops, has he?”

  Madeline shook her head.

  “I think we’d better stay on watch,” Jane said. “A man like that LaMotte, he might take defeat from a person of his own class, another man, but a woman? A colored woman? I’ll bet he’d lose his mind rather than let that happen.”

  “I think he’s already lost it.”

  Jane shrugged, not caring to argue the point. “It isn’t the last battle. He’ll be back.”

  Book Five

  Washita

  Let us have peace.

  GENERAL ULYSSES S. GRANT,

  Election Campaign, 1868

  As brave men and as the soldiers of a government which has exhausted its peace efforts, we, in the performance of a most unpleasant duty, accept the war begun by our enemies, and resolve to make its end final.

  GENERAL SHERMAN to

  GENERAL SHERIDAN, 1868

  To proceed south, in the direction of the Antelope Hills, thence towards the Washita River, the supposed winter seat of the hostile tribes; to destroy their village and ponies; to kill and hang all warriors,
and bring back all women and children …

  GENERAL SHERIDAN to

  GENERAL CUSTER, 1868

  48

  THE SCOUTS RODE IN, chased by four yapping dogs. Griffenstein came in, and the Corbin brothers, and a stout young Mexican interpreter who had been raised by the Cheyennes and spoke the language fluently. His name was Romero, so naturally everyone called him Romeo.

  California Joe rode a mule. Observing his arrival, Charles watched him sway from side to side, blithely smiling at nothing. “Drunk as a tick,” he said later to Dutch Henry. “How can Custer tolerate such a clown?”

  Dutch Henry scratched the head of a terrier with a stubby wagging tail. There were now at least a dozen stray dogs around the camp. “I kinda get the impression that the only strong man Custer likes is Custer. Don’t really make any difference, does it? You said you wanted to kill Cheyennes. Curly’s going to do it.”

  November came down, skies like dark slate, winds bitter. In the camp on the north bank of the Arkansas, Custer ordered a double-up of rifle drill. Twice daily, men of the Seventh fired at targets set up at one hundred, two hundred, three hundred yards. Cooke’s sharpshooters frequently dropped around to jeer and offer superior comments.

  Generals Sully and Custer called a meeting of the officers and scouts to review the strategy Sheridan had conceived and gotten approved by Uncle Billy at Division. To Griffenstein, Charles whispered a question about Harry Venable, who was absent. Griffenstein said Venable was getting over a bad case of influenza.

  General Sully, U.S.M.A. ’41, was a bit older than Orry would have been had he lived. The general had a famous father, Thomas Sully of Philadelphia, the painter of portraits and historical scenes; even a man like Charles, unsophisticated about art, knew Sully’s heroic depictions of General Washington’s passage over the Delaware.

  The artist’s son was a dignified sort, with the usual chest-length beard. Although he’d recently failed to find and whip any Indians south of the Arkansas, he had a first-class reputation going back to the Mexican War. He was considered an experienced Indian fighter, having chased the Sioux in the Minnesota Rebellion of ’63 and driven them to refuge in the Black Hills. Charles watched Custer closely; the Boy General couldn’t entirely hide his resentment of Sully. There was not room for both of them on the expedition, Charles decided.

  Using maps, Sully explained that three attack columns would thrust into the Indian Territory simultaneously. A mixed infantry and cavalry column was marching east from Fort Bascom, New Mexico Territory. A second column, Fifth Cavalry troops under Brigadier Eugene Carr, would strike southeast from Fort Lyon, Colorado, toward the Antelope Hills, a familiar landmark just below the North Canadian.

  The central column was Sully’s, or Custer’s, depending whose side you took. It was considered the main attack force. It consisted of eleven troops of the Seventh and five infantry companies from the Third, Fifth, and Thirty-eighth regiments. The column would strike due south, establish a supply base to be garrisoned by the infantrymen, then push on to trail and harry any Cheyennes or Arapahoes they found encamped in the Territory. The other two columns were like jungle beaters, Sully said, sweeping the Indians ahead of the main column. Charles discovered that all of this was made possible by some old friends of his.

  “Your boys from the Tenth,” Dutch Henry said after the meeting. “They’re posted all along the Smoky Hill now. Wasn’t for them, Custer would still be patrolling up there, ’stead of chasing glory down here. Those darkies got a damn fine reputation. Man for man, they’re better soldiers than all the white rum heads and peg legs in this army. Nobody much likes to admit it, but it’s true.”

  That brought memories of Magic Magee and Star Eyes Williams; of Old Man Barnes and Colonel Grierson. It brought a thin, pleased smile to Charles’s bearded face, too. The first in some time.

  One evening at the scouts’ cook fire, Charles was eating a late supper when he glanced up to see a mangy yellow dog standing and watching him. Charles kept chewing his piece of jerky. The yellow dog, a stray he’d noticed before, wagged his tail and whined imploringly.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  On the other side of the fire, Joe Corbin laughed. “That’s Old Bob. He’s been roaming all over looking for a supply officer. He thinks he’s found one.”

  “Not me,” Charles said. He started to chew the jerky again. Old Bob frisked around him, wagging his tail and mewling more like a kitten than a dog. The mournful yellow-brown eyes stayed fixed on Charles. Finally Charles said, “Oh, hell,” took the piece of jerky from his mouth, and threw it to the mongrel.

  Old Bob was his from then on.

  Charles wanted no part of the continuing schism in the Seventh Cavalry. Unfortunately, a man couldn’t avoid it. Custer had plenty of enemies, and most of them talked about their feelings whether or not they were asked. One of the bitterest was a capable brevet colonel, Fred Benteen, who commanded H Troop under his actual rank of captain.

  “Don’t be fooled by how cool he acts, Charlie,” he said once. “Underneath, he’s smarting over the court-martial. Of course, the Queen of Sheba”—that was what Custer’s detractors called Libbie—“keeps telling him how great he is, and innocent as a lamb. He doesn’t quite believe it, though. Watch him and you’ll notice he runs off to wash his hands ten, twelve, fifteen times a day. No man with a clear conscience does that. This may be Sheridan’s campaign but it’s Custer’s game. He’s playing for his reputation.”

  Custer had plenty of defenders, too. Cooke, of Cooke’s Sharpshooters, was a strong and vocal one. So was Captain Louis Hamilton, grandson of Alexander Hamilton. Not unexpectedly, the man who usually spoke ahead of all the rest was the general’s younger brother, Brevet Colonel Tom Custer, first lieutenant of D Troop. Charles listened to all the praise from the apologists and took it with appropriate cynicism.

  He found one of Custer’s partisans likable in spite of his blind loyalty. The man’s name was Joel Elliott. He had an ingenuous manner and a reputation for heroism that no one disputed. In the war, without connections, he’d risen from private to captain. In ’64, riding with the Seventh Indiana Volunteer Horse in Mississippi, he’d taken a bullet through the lung. He made a miraculous recovery, and after the surrender jumped back into service by taking the competitive officer examination. He’d scored so high, he won a majority. He was Custer’s second in command, and led his own three-troop detachment. Charles formed an immediate impression that Elliott was a good soldier.

  No mistaking where Elliott stood, though.

  “The general’s a man of impeccable character,” he said. “He quit drinking and smoking years ago. He swears occasionally, but his heart’s never in it.”

  “He wouldn’t command black troops, but I’ve heard it said that he’ll sleep with a black whore.”

  Elliott froze. “A lie. He’s faithful to Libbie.”

  “Sure. She’s pumping him up for president.”

  “Charlie, he isn’t a politician, he’s a soldier. The winningest soldier I’ve ever known. That’s because he fights aggressively.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve heard how aggressive he was,” Charles said, nodding. “He led the Third Michigan to the highest casualty rate of any cavalry outfit in the Union Army.”

  “Doesn’t that say he’s a brave man?”

  “Or a reckless one. One of these days he could do himself in with that kind of recklessness. His whole command, too.”

  “By God it better not happen on this campaign. I’m shooting for a brevet. A brevet or a coffin, nothing in between.”

  Charles smiled sadly at that. Elliott was so earnest. They got along because they argued without personal animosity. It was hard to remember that Joel Elliott was one of the three who’d chased and brought back the infamous quintet of deserters, three of them shot—on Custer’s order.

  Well, he liked Elliott in spite of it. The young officer was unpretentious, enthusiastic, and most important, a self-taught professional. You could probably
depend on him to carry out orders, even bad ones, to the letter. In a hot fight, that counted for a lot.

  The weather grew worse, the days dark with the threat of storms that lurked in billowing black clouds in the north. The drilling continued. Farriers tended to the animals, and issued each man a spare front and rear shoe and extra nails, to be carried in a saddle pouch.

  The scouts fretted to be away. They had their own encampment, shared with another group, one Charles didn’t care for—eleven Osage trackers, led by chief Hard Rope and Little Beaver. Charles disliked their eyes, hiding God knew what treacherous thoughts and schemes, and their ugly flat-nosed faces, and the way they constantly caressed and fussed over their big bows of hedge-apple wood, or came begging among the white scouts for sugar for their coffee. Indians were insane about sweet coffee. They put so much sugar in a cup that what resulted was a damp brown mound they ate rather than drank.

  “Just keep them away from me,” Charles said to. California Joe Milner, whose real name was Moses, not Joe, he’d discovered. Hard Rope had approached Charles—“Me need sugar” was the best English he could manage—and Charles told him to go to hell. California Joe had called him down.

  “You got to ride with ’em, Main.”

  “I’ll ride with them. I don’t have to be social.”

  California Joe was in his cups, and pliable. “Well, if that’s how it is, that’s how it is, I guess,” he said.

  Charles tended to his gear, curried Satan and fed him extra forage, scrounged scraps for Old Bob, and waited. At the end of the first week of November; the clouds cleared away. Everyone took it as a sign that they’d march soon.

  Charles was ready. He felt fit, missed his son, thought of Willa more than was good for him—remembering her was melancholy and painful—and deemed it wisdom, not cowardice, to avoid Handsome Harry Venable.