The Titans

by John Jakes

  Jeremiah exploded, “Mrs. Rose, I can’t believe you care so little about your own stepdaughter!”

  Catherine didn’t take offense. “I told you I tried. For years! Finally I saw the truth I’d been attempting to avoid. That’s why I wouldn’t want Serena—associated permanently with a person I liked or respected. And I like and respect you.”

  One hand reached out, clasping his fingers. The pressure was intense.

  “Leave her alone, Jeremiah. For your own sake.”

  The almost frantic clutch of Catherine’s fingers repelled him. Without realizing it, he’d become Serena’s partisan. It had happened, he supposed, during the frenzied kissing and fumbling an hour ago.

  “Jeremiah?”

  “What?”

  “Give me your promise you’ll leave when you can.”

  “No, ma’am, I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  How could he confront her with the fact that she’d become suspect on several counts? There was her talk of Christianity and kindness coupled with her hypocrisy about taking wine. There was the old animosity toward Rose’s first wife he’d learned about from Serena. And most of all, there was this quiet, venomous attack.

  He couldn’t explain those reasons. Much as he resented all she’d said, and knowing full well that Serena’s new interest was most likely caused by the money, he still couldn’t turn on Mrs. Rose. She’d treated him well. Perhaps she’d convinced herself she was still doing so.

  “Jeremiah—why not?”

  He was rescued when Catherine jerked around in her chair, to face the highway. Almost at once he caught the sound too. A lowing and bleating—out there in the darkness.

  Then, muffled but unmistakable, the ragged rhythm of marching.

  Catherine leaped up. “There’s livestock on the road!”

  “And men,” he said, as she gathered up her skirts and ran along the piazza.

  “If it’s the Yanks, they aren’t going to set foot on this property!”

  All at once she was gone, dashing wildly down the lane between the live oaks whose trunks showed faint redness on their western sides.

  ii

  Jeremiah didn’t follow her. He was too stunned and upset by her attack on Serena.

  The lowing and bleating and out-of-cadence tramp of boots grew steadily louder. Finally he drove himself into motion, left the piazza, took three strides across the drive.

  “Goddamn her vile tongue!”

  He whirled.

  Serena stood in the main doorway.

  iii

  He might not have existed; the girl paid no attention to him. She gazed down the lane where Catherine had vanished. She was trembling.

  Suddenly she riveted her eyes on his. He almost cringed at the hate he saw.

  “I went into the sitting room to hunt for one last decanter.”

  She needed to say nothing more. He remembered the open windows not far from the chairs and the sound of a furtive footstep.

  Serena’s knuckles were white as she gripped the jamb. “You’re not going to listen to her, are you? I’m not half so wicked as she wants you to think!” She beat a fist against the wood. “Sometimes I wish one of those Yanks would come around here and kill her!”

  Jolted, he exclaimed, “My God, you don’t mean that!”

  She covered her eyes. “No. No. But—she makes me so blasted mad!”

  She rushed forward. “Jeremiah, she’s detested me since the day she married Papa. You know why? Because she detested my mama’s reputation. She felt that having me around all the time soiled her—even though I never did anything to make her feel that way!”

  The girl seized his shoulders. “If you listen to her—to those vicious stories she makes up—it’ll ruin everything!”

  Excited by her touch, he started to ask her to explain exactly what would be ruined.

  Laughter—raucous male laughter—burst out down by the gate. For a moment he’d forgotten the strangers on the road. The laughter reminded him.

  He spun, his heart hammering, just as Catherine’s faint cry of protest rang out.

  “I think the Yanks are here. I have to go.”

  “No. You wait!”

  “Serena—”

  “You wait! This is too important.” Her urgency, and her hand, held him at her side.

  “Jeremiah, you have to trust me. It’s important to me that you do. I don’t want you to think I’m the sort of person she says. ’Course I’ve flirted with boys. I admit it.

  Maybe I’ve even done more than flirt. But never anything truly wrong. Never! The rest—anything you thought I meant back in the woods—that was teasing. I’m not experienced.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “That was all teasing. Dumb, idiotic teasing!”

  “Can I believe you?”

  “Yes—and I want you to—I do!” She pressed against him.

  But he asked what needed asking, “What’s the reason, Serena? The money?”

  “I’d be a ninny to say no. Any girl’s anxious for a good catch. But that isn’t the only reason. If you were eighty years old and rich as Midas, I wouldn’t look at you. Not for a minute.”

  Relief flooded through him. She’d caught him off guard by being so candid about the inheritance. What lingered to bother him was her claim of inexperience. The implication of chastity. Did he dare believe that—much as he wanted to—after what had happened in the pines?

  Catherine’s faint cry sounded again. Someone had hold of the bell rope. Clang!

  “Serena, I can’t wait any longer!”

  Clang! Clang! The bell raised echoes across the smoky countryside. He gave the girl a last anguished look and ran for the road. Ran toward the woman who needed his help. Ran from the girl he wanted against all doubt and reason—

  She is not moral.

  That was a damning accusation. But where did the guilt, the immorality really lie? Who had been honest about her change of heart?

  Serena.

  Who had belittled—condemned—the very child she’d raised. And done it secretively?

  Catherine.

  The balance tipped, heavily and finally, in favor of the girl who’d stirred fierce new longings with her mouth, her hands, her body.

  His long tawny hair streamed behind him as he raced down the lane beneath the festoons of tillandsia. Ahead, he saw a lantern bobbing like an immense firefly. He glimpsed men and livestock. Heard an altercation growing louder and more acrimonious.

  SHE IS NOT MORAL.

  For an instant, he was unsure of his decision. Then, equally swiftly, he was ashamed of the doubt. Above all, he wanted to believe Serena.

  And he couldn’t flee—not later, and certainly not now. Directly ahead, where the lantern’s yellow light paled in a sudden drift of smoke, he saw the boisterous Yanks.

  iv

  By the time he reached the closed white gate, Catherine had taken possession of the rope dangling from the bell post just inside. Two companies of scruffy, bearded men in Union blue had halted on the highway. The column of uneven ranks had come along the straight stretch leading out of the dense forest separating Rosewood from the Jesperson farm, which had evidently been torched. Thick, pungent smoke drifted from that direction.

  In the cornfield on the highway’s far side, a herd of about two dozen cattle and as many sheep milled. By the lantern’s light, Jeremiah could just discern ragged drovers prodding the cattle into a steadily shrinking circle. The drovers’ shouts and profanity were loud in the night air.

  The soldiers outside the fence jabbered at one another in a guttural foreign language. Jeremiah supposed they must be some of the Dutchmen serving with the Northern army. Among the miscellany of arms they carried he spied several of the new Spencer rifles. The deadly repeaters held seven balls and could be fired every three or four seconds by a practiced hand. He’d seen one of the pieces, captured after Chickamauga. Lieutenant Colonel Rose had once remarked that the Spencer’s rapid-fire capability would give the Yanks a final, decisive ad
vantage in the war.

  Some of the Union men had other, more unusual equipment with them: spades and axes, slung over shoulders or trailing in the dust. The lantern held by a burly sergeant with a bad complexion revealed the team and driver of a white-topped wagon stopped in the dark to the left. Some nigras clustered around the front of the wagon, clapping and joking. Jeremiah counted five—and was relieved that Price was not among them.

  One of the nigras wore a top hat and an emerald-colored frock coat. The young woman with the group was gowned in shimmering orange silk. Undoubtedly the clothing had been stolen from a former master and mistress.

  Beside the sergeant with the lantern stood two officers. One, the senior, was a square-faced, middle-aged man with mild brown eyes and a ragged uniform blouse. Hovering close to him, a younger lieutenant with a pointed chin eyed Jeremiah and wiped the heel of his right palm with the tips of his fingers. The nervous hand hovered beside the butt of his holstered revolver.

  The older man addressed Catherine in heavily accented English. “Captain Franz Poppel, madam. This advance party of engineers is widening and corduroying roads for General Sherman’s army.”

  “You mean you’re going to tear up the highway?”

  “No, this road is adequate. However—”

  “Roadwork isn’t all you’re doing!” Catherine exclaimed, pointing to the cornfield. “You’re stealing livestock from civilians too!”

  Poppel acknowledged guilt with a blush and bob of his head. The sharp-chinned lieutenant turned to her, eyes flinty. “What we do is our business.”

  Poppel held up a hand. “Lieutenant Stock means we are under orders to forage according to our requirements.”

  The lieutenant refused to be silenced. “This your property, woman?”

  “Would I be down here if it weren’t?”

  “Show a little more respect, if you please,” the lieutenant snapped, taking two swift strides to the fence. He reached across, caught Catherine’s upraised arm—her hand was still on the bell rope—and jerked it down against the top rail of the fence.

  The rope danced. The bell pealed. The lieutenant levered Catherine’s arm down harder. “Else we’ll teach you how.”

  “Stock!” Poppel exclaimed as Catherine’s body twisted. She was in pain, but she didn’t cry out.

  Captain Poppel moved too slowly to get between his lieutenant and Catherine. So this is what we’re going to be up against? Jeremiah thought bitterly, bending down fast to reach the top of his boot. He hadn’t forgiven Catherine for her remarks about Serena. But she was still a woman.

  “Secesh there—he’s got a knife!” the sergeant cried.

  The lantern began to swing wildly as the man retreated. Jeremiah’s hand streaked up, the knife flashing light from pitted steel. Two long steps and he was at the fence.

  His left hand shot out like a hook to catch the startled lieutenant by the back of the neck. The lieutenant’s grip broke. Catherine scrambled away.

  Jeremiah jerked the lieutenant forward. Off balance, the man fell, the side of his head slamming the rail. Jeremiah held the man’s head against the rail with one hand, and with the other slid the edge of the knife against Stock’s throat.

  “You’ve mauled Mrs. Rose the first and last time.” His voice was soft, but his mouth had set in that thin, cruel line.

  Bent at the waist, the lieutenant tried to free his revolver with his right hand.

  “Go on, get the gun!” Jeremiah whispered. He dug the knife-edge deeper. “What’s holding you?”

  A thread of blood began to trickle toward Lieutenant Stock’s collar. There were alarmed exclamations from the ranks. Jeremiah was aware of a blue barrel aimed at his head. Then a dozen more.

  “They fire,” he warned Poppel, “your man’s done.”

  Stock and the captain realized he meant it. Stock’s hand dropped away from his holster. His eyes watered.

  “Madam,” Poppel exclaimed to Catherine, “beg your son not to provoke this kind of trouble!”

  “He’s not my son—” she began.

  “Shoot the fucking Secesh!” a soldier shouted. Other men yelled agreement.

  Sweating, Jeremiah held the knife steady against Stock’s quivering throat. “Yes, feel free,” he told Poppel. “I guarantee you’ll lose one engineer. It’s up to you.”

  Chapter II

  Invasion

  i

  “NO FIRING!” POPPEL EXCLAIMED, facing the road. “That is an order!” He spun to Jeremiah. “Let him go.”

  “So your boys can pick me off? No, thank you.”

  Poppel swabbed his face with his sleeve. “What do you want?”

  “Your promise,” Jeremiah answered. “Not to touch this woman again. Not to harm this property or anyone on it.”

  “We intend to camp on your land tonight—” Poppel began.

  “Inside the gate,” Jeremiah said with a jerk of his head. “Under the trees. Nowhere else.”

  “Captain,” Stock panted, “don’t take orders from a goddamn boy!”

  “This is my responsibility—not yours,” Poppel replied. A nervous flick of his eyes toward Jeremiah. His tongue crept over his perspiring upper lip. Then he nodded.

  “All right. Stock should not have mistreated her. I agree to the terms. We will camp on your land but will not intrude on your privacy. In the morning we will move on. We’ll require provisions, however. Corn. Pigs.”

  “We’re supposed to surrender our food just because you say so?” Catherine blazed.

  Captain Poppel pointed at the ranks of men. Jeremiah saw the blue muzzles still poised. Saw hostile faces behind them. A nervous finger could blow him away—

  “These are hungry men. We take nothing our orders prohibit us from taking. I will make certain no property is harmed. But I insist on provisions. And,” he added to Jeremiah, “that knife.”

  Suddenly the strain wrenched his face. “Trust me! Else one of those men is liable to shoot you down.”

  “Can I rely on your word?” Jeremiah asked, searching the captain’s face.

  “On my word, and on this.”

  Poppel drew his own revolver. To his soldiers, he said, “After the young man gives me the knife, the first one who moves against him or the woman, I shoot. Now put the rifles down.”

  Grumbles, low cursing.

  “Put them down!”

  Slowly, the blue muzzles lowered. Jeremiah studied Poppel again, trying to assess the man’s honesty. He thought he could trust him. It was a risk, but the alternative was far less attractive. Wounded or killed, he’d be no use to Catherine and Serena.

  “Now let him go,” Poppel said.

  Jeremiah released the lieutenant’s head and pulled the edge of the knife away from his bleeding throat.

  The lieutenant’s eyes were murderous. But before his fingers reached the butt of his revolver, Poppel cocked his.

  “Hands down, Stock. We struck a bargain.”

  Stock fumed. Poppel extended his other hand.

  “The knife now, young man.”

  He wanted to believe Poppel was decent, not lying. Catherine’s expression seemed to urge him to cooperate. “I promise you will not be harmed!” Poppel cried.

  “We”—Catherine’s voice sounded unsteady—“we’ll rely on this officer’s word, Jeremiah. Give him the knife.”

  He dropped the blade into Poppel’s palm and stepped back. The captain exhaled loudly, relieved. His gun remained centered on a button on Lieutenant Stock’s blouse.

  “Very good. Form up the men, Stock.” When the lieutenant hesitated, Poppel roared, “Go!”

  Stock swabbed his neck with a bandana, pivoted, and stalked toward the grumbling soldiers.

  “You wait till we leave!” a soldier shouted at Jeremiah and Catherine. “You’ll be rooting around in ashes!”

  Red-faced, Poppel whirled. “Be quiet! We do not burn private property.”

  “Then”—Catherine pointed shakily toward the heavy forest to the left—“who fired the
Jesperson farm?”

  “Not my soldiers,” Poppel replied. “With one or two exceptions, these are decent men. They have wives. Families. Homes of their own. I personally guarantee their good conduct. Unfortunately I cannot guarantee the manner in which this entire campaign is being waged. There are some units that act without restraint. However, mine is not one. Now may we come onto your land?”

  Catherine sighed. “All right.”

  Poppel bobbed his head again, crisply. “We will camp under those trees. No one will enter the house except myself and my sergeant. I am required to search the premises for concealed arms and ammunition.”

  Out by the men, Stock shouted, “If that Secesh boy says different, we’ll blow his damned head off.”

  The statement was meant more for the troops than Jeremiah. Shouts of agreement in German greeted it. Poppel whirled again, angry. The noise faded while Jeremiah stood with his hands clenched, hoping he hadn’t gambled wrongly.

  Catherine’s eyes begged him for restraint. He decided threats couldn’t really hurt him. What mattered was the captain’s ability to exert his authority and enforce his pledge; there seemed no lack of such ability. The Dutchmen were all avoiding Poppel’s fierce eyes.

  Catherine stood back from the gate.

  “Open it for them, Jeremiah.”

  Some of Jeremiah’s tension drained away. In reply to Catherine’s instruction, the captain murmured, “Thank you, madam.”

  Jeremiah reached for the pin. Despite Judge Claypool’s reports of devastation and Poppel’s remarks about disorderly troops, perhaps a little hope was justified after all. If men like Poppel proved to be in the majority, maybe the Yank march across Georgia might not be so savage and disgraceful as rumor said it was.

  ii

  He and Catherine stood back while a still-fuming Lieutenant Stock led the first soldiers into the lane.

  Others followed quickly, spreading out beneath the oaks on either side. Poppel still had his revolver drawn as he waited beside Catherine and Jeremiah, alert to any signs of disobedience. There were sullen looks, angry remarks in German. But no attempted violence. Poppel’s assertiveness and decency had taken the heat out of the situation. Under the trees, some of the soldiers were actually laughing.