North and South: The North and South Trilogy (Book One)

by John Jakes

  Instead he found a secluded glade not far from the palisade. There, despite the risk of snakes and the threat of insects, he spread his blankets, placed his loaded weapons within reach, lay down beside her in the hot, damp dark, and took her.

  He knew only rudimentary words of her language, none a term of endearment. Yet she knew his need and was eager for his touch. His mouth on her mouth, his hand on her belly—this was what she had wanted almost from the first. He had seen it in her eyes and failed to comprehend.

  Charles was an accomplished lover, tender when necessary. The knowing, courtly ways had not been completely forgotten. Jeanne’s plight and her need for consideration had assured that. Yet toward the end the style of his lovemaking changed. A slow, lazy rhythm was replaced by a quicker, more purposeful one. His excitement increased. So did hers. Passive pleasure became frantic response. Lying on wet, fertile earth, a hundred kinds of life buzzing or crying out around them and scores of stars pricking the black sky, they clasped each other.

  That night he planted his seed as methodically as he was to plant the crops that would create the Main fortune.

  At that period Charles Town consisted of something less than a hundred rude homes and commercial buildings. Many of the Barbadian men talked of erecting those spacious, breezy houses typical of the islands from which they had come. But it would take a better economy, a thriving future, to bring that about. The town’s air of gentility was obviously feigned and not a little shabby.

  It didn’t seem so to Charles the next morning. The day was bright and clear, the air freshened by a northeast wind off the harbor. He strolled to the wharf with the Indian girl following a step behind. His bearing had changed, touched now with certainty, force.

  Charles couldn’t help noticing the scornful stares of the gentry who were abroad. To have a liaison with a woman of color, whether brown or black, was acceptable. To flaunt it in public was something else.

  The expressions of the gentlemen soon put a new thought in his head. Most Carolinians were infernally snobbish about their pedigrees. If he sired a child known to be half Cherokee, they would never admit him or the child to their circle, regardless of how much money he might accumulate—and never mind that his lineage was as good as theirs.

  Swiftly, he began to concoct a scheme. He knew the Indian girl would become pregnant; he would see to it. Once it began to show, he would contrive to keep her in the back country, set her up in a cabin of her own, unseen by anyone except him and perhaps King Sebastian. He would tell her she would be safer that way.

  He could then inform Jeanne that he meant to adopt a male child. He never doubted that the Indian girl would deliver a son, just as he never doubted his own ability to withstand and overcome her fury when he took the child away. He was a man, which gave him an advantage; he was white, which gave him another. He could deal with her forcibly, if it came to that. There was little Charles wouldn’t do to assure the continuity of his line and the future security of any male who bore his name.

  Later, he could pass the child off to outsiders as his sister’s orphaned son. The plan excited him, and he couldn’t completely conceal the reaction. The girl was walking at his shoulder now. She noticed his sudden hard smile, which just as quickly disappeared.

  He saw her questioning look. Gently he touched her arm, gazing at her in a way she took to be reassuring. His fast, noisy breathing slowed. They walked on.

  He inquired about arriving ships with Africans for sale. None was expected for three weeks, he learned. The only noteworthy vessel in port was a merchantman out of Bridgetown, a trading vessel carrying a few passengers: Gull of Portsmouth.

  Charles passed a group of five young men who seemed fascinated by the sights of the little port. He had seen their kind before. Indentured boys. They had a whipped look—all except one stocky young fellow with heavy shoulders, light brown hair, and eyes that glowed like ice in the sunshine. He moved with a certain swagger.

  Going in opposite directions, each took brief notice of the other. The bound boy was curious about the man with the primitive clothing, aristocratic bearing, and sprouting beard. The former slaver and would-be slave owner was wondering how someone could voluntarily consign himself to slavery.

  A mate leaned over the merchantman’s rail.

  “Back on board, lads. The tide’s flowing. You’ll find grander sights to gawk at in Penn’s town.”

  The indentured boys hurried back to the ship, and the tall aristocrat drifted away in the crowd, his Cherokee woman following with adoring eyes. In the cheerful light of the morning, each man had already forgotten the other.

  Book One

  Answer The Drum

  … In future wars the Nation must look to the Academy for the skill to conduct valor to victory.

  SECRETARY OF WAR JOHN C. CALHOUN

  TO SYLVANUS THAYER, SUPERINTENDENT,

  U.S. MILITARY ACADEMY

  1818

  1

  “LIKE SOME HELP LOADING that aboard, young sir?”

  The stevedore smiled but there was no friendliness in his eyes, only avarice inspired by the sight of an obvious stranger.

  A few moments ago the driver of the Astor House passenger omnibus had thrown the travel-battered trunk down at the head of the pier. Orry had picked it up by the one rope handle still unbroken and had dragged it scarcely three feet before the stevedore stepped between him and the gangway.

  It was a brilliant, windless morning in June 1842. Orry was already nervous about the day ahead. The stevedore’s fixed smile and hard stare only worsened that state, as did the sight of the stevedore’s two associates lounging nearby.

  Nerves and cowardice were two different things, though; Orry had no intention of letting the former lead to the latter. He had been warned that New York teemed with all sorts of swindlers, and now it appeared he had finally met one. He took off his tall, stylish beaver hat and mopped his forehead with a linen handkerchief from an inside pocket.

  Orry Main was sixteen and stood almost six feet two inches. His slimness accentuated his height and lent him a certain grace when he moved. He had a long, plain face with the good color of someone who spent a lot of time in the sunshine. His nose was narrow and aristocratic, his wavy hair brown. His eyes, brown too, were rather deeply set. Fatigue circles tended to appear under them whenever he slept poorly, as he had last night. The rings of shadow gave his face a melancholy cast. But he was not melancholy by disposition. His smile, which appeared frequently, proved that. He was, however, a deliberate sort. He tended to pause and think before taking any important step.

  Impatient, the stevedore put a foot on the trunk. “Lad I asked—”

  “I heard you, sir. I can handle the trunk myself.”

  “Listen to that,” one of the other stevedores jeered. “Where you from, country boy?” It was Orry’s accent that gave him away; his clothes were far from countrified.

  “South Carolina.”

  His heart was beating fast now. The three were mature men, muscular and rough. But he refused to be backed down. He reached for the rope handle. The first stevedore grabbed his wrist.

  “No you don’t. Either we put it on the steamer or you travel up to West Point without it.”

  Orry was stunned by the threat and equally stunned by the ease with which he and his destination had been identified. He needed time to think, time to put himself in a better position to deal with these louts. He shook his wrist to signal that he wanted the stevedore to release him. After a deliberate delay the man did. Orry straightened and used both hands to put his hat back on his head.

  Three female passengers, two pretty girls and an older woman, hurried by. They certainly couldn’t help him. Then a small man in a uniform stepped off the gangway, an official of the line, Orry suspected. A sharp wave from one of the stevedores and the official came no farther.

  “How much to load it?” Orry asked. Somewhere behind him wagon wheels squealed and hooves rang on the cobbles. He heard merry voices, laug
hter. Other passengers arriving.

  “Two dollars.”

  “That’s about eight times more than it should be.”

  The stevedore grinned. “Could be, sojerboy. But that’s the price.”

  “You don’t like it,” the second stevedore said, “go complain to the mayor. Go complain to Brother Jonathan.” All three laughed. Brother Jonathan was the popular symbol for the nation. A rustic, a Yankee.

  Orry was perspiring from tension as well as from the heat. He bent at the waist, again reaching for the trunk. “I refuse to pay you a—”

  The first stevedore pushed him. “Then the trunk stays here.”

  A grave look concealed Orry’s fear. “Sir, don’t put hands on me again.” The words provoked the stevedore to do exactly that. He tried to give Orry a clumsy shake. Orry had planned his point of attack and rammed his right fist into the stevedore’s stomach.

  The official cried, “Stop that,” and started forward. Another stevedore flung him back so hard he nearly pitched off the pier into the water.

  The first stevedore grabbed Orry’s ears and twisted. Then he kneed Orry’s groin. Orry reeled away, falling against someone who had come up behind him, someone who darted around him and charged the three stevedores, fists swinging.

  A young man not much older than himself, Orry saw as he lunged back to the fray. A shorter, very stocky chap who punched with great ferocity. Orry jumped in, bloodied a nose, and got his cheek raked by fingernails. Frontier-style fighting had reached the New York docks, it seemed.

  The first stevedore tried to jab a thumb in Orry’s eye. Before he hit his target, a long gold-knobbed cane came slashing in from the right. The knob whacked the stevedore’s forehead. He yelled and staggered.

  “Blackguards,” a man bellowed. “Where are the authorities?”

  “William, don’t excite yourself,” a woman exclaimed.

  The stocky young man jumped on Orry’s trunk, poised and ready to continue the fight. Now the official by the gangway was joined by two crewmen from the steamer. The stevedores backed off, calculated the rapidly changing odds, and after some oaths that brought gasps from the two ladies who had just arrived, hurried off the pier and disappeared on the street beyond.

  Orry drew a deep breath. The other young man jumped down from the trunk. His fine clothes were hardly ruffled.

  “I thank you very much for your assistance sir.” Orry’s politeness helped hide his nervousness in the presence of Yankees—and patently prosperous ones, at that.

  The stocky young man grinned. “We almost had ’em whipped.”

  Orry smiled too; The newcomer stood just about to his shoulder. Although there was no fat on him, he gave the impression of being very wide of body. His face was shaped like a wide U. He’d lost his hat, and his brown hair, lighter than Orry’s, showed several blond streaks bleached by the sun. The young man’s pale, ice-colored eyes were saved from severity by a good-humored sparkle. His smile helped, too, although anyone who disliked him no doubt would have called it cocky.

  “So we did,” Orry replied, perpetuating the lie.

  “Nonsense,” said a stout, pasty man three or four years older than Orry’s benefactor. “Both of you could have been injured or killed.”

  The stocky lad spoke to Orry. “My brother never does anything more dangerous than trimming his nails.”

  The woman who had cried out, stout and fortyish, said, “George, don’t be saucy to Stanley. He’s right. You’re far too reckless.”

  It was a family, then. Orry touched his hat brim. “Whether we won or lost, all of you helped me out of a tight spot. My thanks again.”

  “I’ll give you a hand with that trunk,” George said. “You are taking this boat, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, to the Military Academy.”

  “Just get your appointment this year?”

  Orry nodded. “Two months ago.”

  “Fancy that,” George said, grinning again. “So did I.”

  He let go of the broken rope handle. Orry’s quick jump saved his feet from being crushed by the trunk.

  The other young man held out his hand. “Name’s George Hazard. I’m from Pennsylvania. A little town you’ve never heard of—Lehigh Station.”

  “Orry Main. From Saint George’s Parish, South Carolina.”

  They looked at each other as their hands clasped. Orry had a feeling this pugnacious little Yankee was going to be a friend.

  A few steps away George’s father was berating the official who had stood by while a fight developed. The official loudly disavowed responsibility for the public pier. The elder Hazard exclaimed, “I’ve got your name. There’ll be an investigation, I promise you that.”

  Scowling, he returned to his family. His wife soothed him with some murmured words and a pat or two. Then George cleared his throat and, with a mannerly air, made the proper introductions.

  William Hazard was a stern, impressive man with a lined face. He looked ten years older than his wife, though in fact he was not. In addition to the parents and their two older sons, there was a sister, Virgilia—oldest of the children, Orry surmised—and a boy of six or seven. His mother called him William; George referred to him as Billy. The boy kept fiddling with his high collar, which brushed the lobes of his ears; all the men, including Orry, wore similar collars. Billy gazed at his brother George with unmistakable admiration.

  “Since Stanley’s the oldest male, he’s going to take over the ironworks,” George explained as he and Orry carried the trunk onto the steamer. “There’s never been a question of his doing anything else.”

  “Iron, you said?”

  “Yes. Our family’s been making it for six generations. The company used to be called Hazard Furnace, but my father changed the name to Hazard Iron.”

  “My older brother would be fascinated. Anything scientific or mechanical interests him.”

  “Are you the second son also?” George’s father asked, coming aboard with the rest of the family.

  “Yes, sir. My brother Cooper refused an Academy appointment, so I took it instead.” He said nothing more. There was no point in airing family quarrels; no point in telling strangers how Cooper, whom Orry admired, continually disappointed and angered their father with his independent ways.

  “Then you’re the fortunate one,” Hazard Senior declared, leaning on his gold-knobbed stick. “Some say the Academy is a haven for aristocrats, but that’s a canard. The true nature of the Academy is this: it’s the source of the best scientific education available in America.” He punctuated each sentence with a kind of verbal period; the man spoke in pronouncements, Orry thought.

  The sister stepped forward. She was an unsmiling girl of about twenty. Her squarish face was marred by a few pox marks. Her figure was generous, almost too buxom for her puff-shouldered, narrow-waisted dress of embroidered cambric. Gloves and a flower-trimmed poke completed her costume. Miss Virgilia Hazard said, “Would you be kind enough to repeat your first name, Mr. Main?”

  He could certainly understand why she wasn’t married. “Orry,” he said, and spelled it. He explained that his forebears were early settlers of South Carolina and that he was the third member of his family to be called Orry; it was a corruption of Horry, a common Huguenot name pronounced as if the H did not exist.

  Virgilia’s dark eyes challenged him. “Might I ask the nature of your family’s business?”

  Instantly he felt defensive; he knew what she was after.

  “They own a rice plantation, ma’am. Rather large and considered prosperous.” He realized his description was gratuitous and braggy; he was indeed on the defensive.

  “Then I presume you also own slaves?”

  No trace of a smile on his face now. “Yes, ma’am, more than a hundred and fifty. You can’t grow rice without them.”

  “As long as the South perpetuates Negro slavery, Mr. Main, the region will remain backward.”

  The mother touched her daughter’s arm. “Virgilia, this is neither the time n
or the place for such a discussion. Your remark was impolite and un-Christian. You hardly know this young man.”

  The sister blinked; it appeared to be the only apology Orry would get.

  “Visitors ashore. Visitors ashore, please!” A bell rang stridently. George bustled around, hugging Billy, his mother, his father. He shook stuffy Stanley’s hand and merely said good-bye to Virgilia.

  Soon the steamer was backing from its berth. The family waved from the pier. They dropped out of sight as the boat headed upstream. The two travelers stared at each other, realizing they were on their own.

  George Hazard, seventeen, felt obliged to apologize to the young man from the South. George didn’t understand his older sister, though he suspected she was mad at the world because she hadn’t been born a man, with a man’s rights and opportunities. Her anger made her a misfit socially; she was too brusque to catch a beau.

  The young Pennsylvanian didn’t understand his sister’s opinions, either. He had never thought much about slavery one way or another. It existed, although many said it should not. He was not about to damn this chap because of it.

  The paddles churned the sunlit water. New York’s piers and buildings disappeared astern. George glanced sidewise at Orry, who in one way reminded him of Stanley. Think carefully first, and don’t act until you do. There was, however, a significant difference. Orry had a natural, genuine smile. Stanley’s smile was priggish and obviously forced.

  George cleared his throat. “My sister was rude to say what she did.”

  The moment he spoke he saw Orry’s shoulders stiffen. But the tone of the statement put the Southerner at ease. Orry asked, “Is she an abolitionist?”

  “I don’t think so. Not an active one, anyway, although I guess she could be. Hope you don’t take her remarks too personally. I expect Virgilia would sass anyone from your part of the country. You’re probably the first Southron she’s ever run into. We don’t see many in Pennsylvania, and I can’t say I’ve ever met one myself.”

  “You’ll meet plenty at the Academy.”