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

by John Jakes

  She didn’t blame her father for what had happened. Yet she believed things might not have reached such a state if she had also had a mother to counsel her. Madeline had never known her mother, whom Nicholas Fabray always described as the finest woman in the world. Evidently she had been an intelligent, sophisticated Creole of great beauty. Fabray said Madeline resembled her strongly, but there was not a single picture to prove or disprove that. Just before his wife’s sudden and unexpected death, he had commissioned a miniaturist to paint her portrait. He said it was the second greatest disappointment of his life that he had not made the arrangements sooner.

  Dear God, it was all such a frightful tangle, Madeline thought. So full of bitter ironies. How she had argued with Maum Sally about the wedding-night deception! She had said no to it again and again, even though Maum Sally insisted the deception was not only essential but, given prevailing male attitudes on virginity, an act of kindness toward Justin. The deception would ensure a smooth and trouble-free start to the marriage.

  How damnably guilty she had felt for giving in—and how pitiable that guilt seemed in the light of her husband’s treachery.

  Then there was her meeting on the river road with the young military cadet, Orry Main. She had been taken with his gentle good manners and deep, dark eyes. She had wanted to touch him and she had done so, forgetting for a few seconds not only that she was about to be married but that he could not possibly be what he seemed. He was, after all, just about her own age.

  Unexpectedly, an image of Orry slipped back into her thoughts as she lay beside her husband. Even at the reception she had felt a brief but powerful attraction to the young cadet. With her mind’s eye she studied the imaginary face. Suddenly, guilt attacked her again. No matter what Justin had done to her, he was her husband. Even to think of another man was dishonorable.

  Yet Orry’s face lingered. To help banish it, she flung her forearm across her eyes, with more noise than she intended. She went rigid. The sound of Justin’s breathing had changed. She straightened her arm at her side and tightened both hands into fists.

  He was awake.

  He started to speak but began coughing. In a faint voice she asked, “Are you all right?” It was concern she didn’t feel.

  He rolled onto his side, his back toward her. “I will be as soon as I clear this cough with some bourbon.”

  In the dark he knocked a glass off the bed stand. He blurted words Madeline had heard only a few times in her life, even though she was no stranger to profanity; Papa had strong views and sometimes punctuated them with oaths.

  Justin didn’t apologize for the filthy language. He drank directly from the bedside decanter. Then he uttered a long sigh and rolled back onto his elbows. The moon was up now; its brilliant light washed over his silky hair and muscular chest. For a man his age, he had very little flab on him.

  He grinned at her. “You needn’t worry about my health, my dear. It’s perfect. Most of the LaMotte men have lived well into their nineties. I’m going to be around to enjoy your favors a good, long time.”

  She was too upset to say anything. She feared the huskiness in his voice and what it portended. He sounded almost testy when he continued, “I want you to bear me sons, Madeline. My first wife couldn’t. Francis once had the nerve to suggest the fault was mine. Nonsense, of course—as we’ll soon prove.”

  He rolled again, coming toward her like some fleshy juggernaut. He swept the sheet off her.

  “Justin, if you don’t mind, I would first like to get up and use—”

  “Later,” he said. He pushed the hem of her bed gown up above her stomach and shoved his hand between her thighs, hurting her.

  She closed her eyes and dug her nails into her palms as he flung himself on top of her and began to grunt.

  7

  ORRY WENT BACK TO the Academy with the embroidered wreath still on his cap. The only person with whom he could discuss the momentous summer was George, who took note of his friend’s melancholy state and tried to jolly him out of it.

  “What you need, Stick, is a visit with Alice Peet. She’ll soon make you forget this Madeline.”

  Orry gave him a long, level look, slowly shook his head.

  “Never.”

  George was concerned about the fervor Orry put into that word. He hoped his friend wouldn’t pine over a married woman for the rest of his life. He clapped an arm across Orry’s shoulder and tried to buck him up. It didn’t help.

  Orry himself saw the need to find some antidote for his misery, He sought it in a herculean effort to lift himself out of the ranks of the immortals. But the second-class curriculum was no easier than those of his first two years. He liked the natural and experimental philosophy course, which included mechanics, optics, astronomy, and even a little about electricity. Yet he couldn’t escape from the lowest section, no matter how he tried.

  It was the same in advanced drawing. Professor Weir was merciless about Orry’s watercolors, referring to them as daubs. George continued to breeze through everything with no apparent effort.

  The one distinct improvement over last year was the opportunity to exercise the body as well as the mind. Second classmen took riding instruction from a professor nicknamed Old Hersh. Orry was a good rider, which was probably a blessing. At graduation, cadets were theoretically free to choose the branch of service they wanted to enter. But as a practical matter, the six branches were just as rigidly ranked as the cadets in their academic sections. Only the top graduates got into the engineers or the slightly less desirable topogs. Cadets at the bottom of the academic standings went to the infantry or to the dragoons and mounted rifles. The last two branches were held in such low esteem by the Army high command that all who served in them were permitted to grow mustaches. Orry suspected he would be growing one, and riding a lot.

  Elkanah Bent had been chosen a cadet officer during summer camp. He strutted about in his scarlet sash and plumed hat, but the rank did nothing to improve his character. He continued to abuse plebes and yearlings with ruthless glee. One plebe, a lanky Kentuckian named Isham, became a special target because, like Orry and George, he showed defiance when Bent deviled him.

  Not long before the national elections, Bent charged Isham with repeatedly losing step during an evening parade. Exhausted and coming down with a fever, Isham confronted Bent outside South Barracks later that night. He asked Bent to withdraw the report since he already had 164 demerits. At the rate he was going, he wouldn’t be around to see whether he could pass the first-term examinations.

  As the more experienced cadets could have told him, that kind of plea brought out the worst in Cadet Lieutenant Bent. He accused Isham of insolence to an upperclassman—several other cadets overheard that much—then marched the plebe away into the dusk for some “disciplinary drill.”

  Next morning after reveille, George and Orry learned that Isham was in the hospital. Gradually they pieced the story together. Bent had taken the plebe to the top of the winding path leading down to the North Dock. He then ordered Isham to march up and down the path at quickstep. It was a warm night, exceptional for late October, and heavy with humidity. After forty minutes Isham was reeling.

  Bent sat on a boulder halfway down the path, smiling and calling mocking encouragements. Isham refused to beg for quarter, and Bent refused to give any. The plebe lasted about an hour. Then his legs gave out and he pitched sideways, tumbling and crashing down the slope to the bottom. He lay unconscious until a few minutes after midnight. Bent, naturally, had disappeared the moment Isham fell. There were no witnesses.

  The plebe staggered to the hospital without his pack. An examination showed him to be suffering from a concussion and three broken ribs. Rumors flew on the Plain. Orry heard from several cadets that Isham would be crippled for life.

  But the Kentuckian was strong. He recovered. Only after he was released from the hospital did he tell some fellow plebes what had happened. It was from them that George and Orry learned the truth, although they h
ad guessed much of it, as had many others.

  One of the tactical officers heard the story and placed Bent on report for disciplinary excesses. Isham refused to accuse his tormentor, however, so the evidence against the Ohioan remained circumstantial, hearsay. When confronted with the charges, Bent denied them heatedly and at length.

  Pickett brought that news down to Gee’s Point on a Saturday afternoon. Orry, George, and several friends were taking advantage of the prolonged hot spell and swimming in the river. George’s reaction was blunt.

  “That bastard. Were the charges dismissed?”

  “Of course,” Pickett said. “ What else could happen after he denied them?”

  George reached for his shirt hanging on a branch. “I think we ought to do something to fix Mr. Blubber Bent.”

  Orry felt the same way, yet, as always, his was the voice of caution.

  “Do you think it’s our affair, George?”

  “It’s the affair of the whole corps now. Bent lied to save himself. Do you want a person like him commanding troops? He’d send a company to slaughter, then shift the blame onto someone else without a qualm. It’s time we got him out of here for good.”

  The presidential campaign moved into its last days. Henry Clay, the Whig candidate, had substantially softened his original position on the Texas issue. Now he sounded almost like his opponent. But anti-annexation men continued to warn that bringing Texas into the Union could precipitate America’s first war in thirty years. If so, it would be a war that would test West Point programs, and West Point graduates, as they hadn’t been tested since the era of Sylvanus Thayer. The issue and the election would be decided on December 4.

  George and Orry paid little attention to the political debate. They were preoccupied with their studies and their plot to bring about Bent’s downfall. The plot remained little more than a nebulous wish until George made his next visit to Benny Haven’s. There he happened to learn that one of Alice Peet’s regular customers was Army Lieutenant Casimir de Jong, the tactical officer who had preferred charges against Bent in the Isham affair. Later he reported to Orry:

  “Old Jongie calls for his laundry every Wednesday night at ten. They say it takes him at least an hour to complete the transaction. I’ll wager he’s going to Alice for more than clean shirts and small clothes.”

  By now Orry was completely in favor of reprisals against the Ohioan. “Then I would say Jongie’s habits dictate our strategy. We should maneuver Bent into the embrace of fair Alice around nine-thirty some Wednesday evening.”

  George grinned. “I can see you have a brilliant future on the battlefield. However, you should always know your ally as well as you know your enemy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Fair Alice may be an agreeable sort, but she’s also a camp follower. A mercenary. She won’t entertain Bent gratis. Especially not after she gets a look at his belly.”

  The reality couldn’t be escaped. The plot went into suspension for three weeks while various cadet conspirators obtained blankets and cooking utensils. No questions were asked about the way they got them, or where. The contraband went to the river man in exchange for cash.

  On the night before the election, George visited Alice with money in hand. Following supper the next evening, the engine of Bent’s hoped-for destruction began to roll.

  George and Pickett staged an argument in front of witnesses. They quarreled over Polk’s support of annexation, George stating the familiar proposition that it had nothing to do with embracing fellow Americans and everything to do with adding more slave territory to the Union.

  Pickett turned red. His replies were loud and contentious. Chance witnesses, and even a few who were in on the plot, were convinced he was furious.

  Over the next few days it became common knowledge that the two Georges had fallen out. This gave Pickett a chance to cozy up to Bent, a deception his wit and Virginia charm helped him carry off convincingly. The following Wednesday night, as a light snow began to fall, Pickett invited the Ohioan to Benny Haven’s for a touch of ardent spirits. Then, en route, Pickett suggested that a visit to Alice Peet would be more stimulating.

  George and Orry, the official observers for the corps, trailed the pair through the snow. Shivering at Alice’s window, they watched her swing into action. Her theatrical ability couldn’t match Pickett’s, but that made no difference. By the time she approached Bent, he had hung his cap on the back of his chair, unbuttoned his collar, and downed three drinks. His eyes were already glassy.

  Bending close to him, Alice whispered into his ear. The Ohioan wiped a drop of saliva from his lips. Outside the partially opened window, the two friends heard him ask Alice her price. George clutched Orry’s forearm; this was the crisis. The plot depended on Bent’s believing Alice’s statement that she would charge him nothing because she had taken a fancy to him. “That,” Pickett had remarked during the formulation of the plan, “is like asking someone to believe the falls of Niagara flow upward.”

  But Bent was drunk, and far back in the Ohioan’s bleary eyes Orry thought he detected the presence of a cringing fat boy wanting to be liked. Bent winked at Pickett across the table. The Virginian rose, grinned, and waved good night.

  Pickett came out and closed the door behind him. As he passed the other conspirators, he whispered without turning his head, “I’m relying on you to report everything that happens.” Without breaking stride, he went away across the crunchy snow. Through the window George and Orry saw Alice reach for Bent’s hand and lead him to the open door to the sleeping area. The bait was taken, the trap ready to close.

  At precisely ten, Lieutenant Casimir de Jong came tramping out of the snow, muffled to the eyes and merrily humming “Chester.” He went straight to the door of Alice’s shack and, after a quick knock, walked in.

  The observers heard Alice let out a patently false squeal of fright. She rushed into the main room, smoothing her shift down with one hand and patting her disarrayed hair with the other. From the darkness beyond the doorway came snorting and the sound of rustling bedclothes.

  Old Jongie plucked the cadet cap from the back of the chair and studied it a moment. Then he crushed it in his hand and planted himself in front of the doorway. Like all good tactical officers he had long ago learned the technique of the intimidating bellow. He used it now.

  “Who is in there? Come out immediately, sir!”

  Snuffling and blinking, Bent appeared a moment later. Old Jongie’s jaw dropped. “Good God, sir—I cannot believe what I see.”

  “It isn’t what you think,” Bent cried. “I came—I only came for my laundry.”

  “With your pants at half mast and your long underwear gapping? In the name of decency, sir—cover yourself.”

  Still crouched, Orry and George waddled toward the half-open door of the shack. George was almost unable to contain his laughter. By the light of an oil lamp, Orry saw Bent frantically jerk up his trousers. Alice wrung her hands.

  “Oh, Mr. Bent, sir, I got so carried away, I clean forgot the lieutenant calls for his laundry every week at this time. That’s the bundle over th—”

  She dodged to avoid Bent’s fist. “You slut, be quiet.”

  “That’s enough, sir!” de Jong shouted. “Comport yourself like a gentleman while you may.”

  Bent’s face shone as if greased. In the stillness of the nearby woods, a nocturnal animal cracked a twig. The sound was loud as a shot.

  “While you may?” Bent whispered. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, sir? You are on report—for more offenses than I care to enumerate at this moment. But be assured that I will enumerate them. Especially those that are punishable by dismissal.”

  Bent looked ill. “Sir, this is all a misunderstanding. If you’ll give me a chance to explain—”

  “The same kind of explanation you provided for Isham’s injuries? Lies?” De Jong was a splendid instrument of official wrath; Orry almost felt sorry for the fat firs
t classman.

  De Jong spun toward the door. Bent saw his whole career about to vanish with the tactical officer. He grabbed de Jong’s shoulder.

  “Take your hands off me, you drunken sot,” de Jong said in a chillingly quiet voice. “I shall expect you in my office the moment you arrive back on post—and that arrival had better not take any longer than ten minutes, or the view halloo will be heard all the way to New York City.”

  Grand in his contempt, Lieutenant de Jong marched down the steps and into the falling snow. He never saw the two cadets crouched in the shadows.

  Inside the shack, Bent turned on Alice. “You stupid, bungling whore—”

  He shoved the rickety table aside. She ran to the stove and snatched a butcher knife from a rack hanging next to it.

  “Get out of here. Stump told me you were crazy, but I didn’t put stock in that. What an idiot I was—get out. Get out!”

  The brandished knife flashed. George and Orry exchanged quick, worried looks as Bent stood swaying, stunned.

  “Stump? Do you mean Hazard had something to do with this? It was Pickett’s idea to come here, and your idea for me to—that is—”

  He was unable to continue. His anger was replaced by an expression of such blinding fury, Orry thought he would never again see its like on a human face.

  Alice compounded the hurt with a shrill laugh. “My idea? I wouldn’t let a pig like you touch me unless I got paid, and paid plenty. Even so, I nearly couldn’t do it.”

  Bent trembled. “I should have seen it. A trick. A plot. All of them against me—that’s it, isn’t it?”

  Alice realized her blunder and tried to rectify it. “No. I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Bent said. The two cadets outside couldn’t see what happened next. Apparently Bent made another threatening move toward the laundress because she began to scream. This time she wasn’t playacting.

  “Quiet, or you’ll wake the whole village!”

  That was exactly what Alice intended; she screamed all the louder. Bent came lunging out the door, his hair flying, his eyes full of fright. He ran off with one hand holding up his pants.