by John Jakes
“They have a flock of new friends,” Cooper explained. “Most of ’em are members of Bob Rhett’s crowd. I can’t pretend it feels good to be shunned by one’s own blood relation, but I expect it’s for the best that they don’t visit or dine with us. James and I are so far apart politically, we’d probably be arranging a duel by the end of the soup course.”
Looking more cheerful, he clapped his hands. “Children,” he called, “it’s almost time to eat. Come sit on your father’s lap.”
Unable to stop thinking of Madeline, Orry gazed at the book, rewrapped it, and carefully slid it into his pocket.
During supper, Cooper tried several times to introduce the subject of an expansion plan that was much on his mind lately. The plan was unconventional. It would require nerve and much more capital than the Mains could handily scrape together. He was thinking of George Hazard as a potential partner, but he never got to mention that. Orry repeatedly turned aside all discussion of business. In fact, he hardly said twenty words while at the table. That night, in bed with Judith, Cooper remarked that he hadn’t seen his brother in such a strange, sad mood since the months right after his return from Mexico.
Huntoon’s law practice was growing. So was his reputation. Ashton helped that growth. She gave parties, receptions, dinners; she cultivated local leaders and their ugly, overbearing wives, never letting any of them know how much she loathed them or how cynically she was using them.
Huntoon worked long hours to prepare a definitive speech on the developing national crisis. One evening in late summer, at the house on East Battery, he delivered a condensed version to an audience of about thirty guests. The guests included editor Rhett and the gentleman recognized as perhaps the foremost advocate of separation, William Yancey of Alabama. A mild, even innocuous-looking man, Yancey was a splendid platform orator. Some were calling him the Prince of Fire Eaters. Ashton dreamed of promoting him to king, so that her husband could assume the other title.
Holding his silver-rimmed spectacles in one hand as a prop, Huntoon did his best to demonstrate his worthiness. The guests listened attentively as he launched into his conclusion, which Ashton knew by heart.
“The Union is like a great fortress, ladies and gentlemen. Half of it has already passed into the hands of barbarian invaders. Loyalists still hold the other half, which they have defended without stint for generations. Now that part of the fortress is being threatened. And I for one will apply the torch to the magazine and blow the whole place to bits before I will surrender one more inch to the barbarians!”
Ashton led the applause, which was loud and enthusiastic. While house slaves offered punch from silver trays, Yancey approached Huntoon.
“That kind of extreme action may very well be necessary, James. And afterward a new fortress will have to be constructed on the rubble of the old. The task will require loyal workers—and able leaders.”
His expression said he considered Huntoon one of the latter. Or at least a candidate. Huntoon preened.
Ashton had little understanding of the issues the men debated endlessly. She honestly didn’t give a hang about Southern rights and wasn’t even sure what they were once you got beyond the fundamental God-given right to hold property in the form of niggers. What excited her about all the talk was the way it stirred others. In that reaction she sensed an opportunity to create and hold power. Her husband had convinced her there would someday be a separate Southern government. She meant to be one of its great ladies.
“James, that was simply wonderful,” she exclaimed as she took his arm. “I declare, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you speak so well.” She was conniving for more applause, and it worked. There was another round from guests nearby. Yancey joined in, adding a “Hear, hear!”
“Thank you, my dear.” Huntoon’s look of gratitude bordered on the pathetic. Ashton seldom complimented him in private, and often told him that he was an inadequate lover.
Tonight, however, the presence of notables and the success of the performance generated an unexpected sexual excitement within her. She could hardly wait to see all the guests to the door, rush upstairs, throw off her clothes, and drag her husband down beside her.
Blinking and sweating, he labored hard. Afterward, he whispered, “Was that all right?”
“Just fine,” she lied. He was doing so well in his role of fire eater, she didn’t want to discourage him. But he never moved her with his clumsy caresses, and in fact frequently repelled her. She consoled herself by thinking that everything, including being a great lady, had its price.
She decided that she needed to make another trip home, however. Soon.
Ashton’s lover had found a new spot for their assignations: the ruins of a country church called Salvation Chapel. What a deliriously wicked thrill to hoist her skirts and let Forbes have her right out in the sunshine, on top of the tabby foundation.
Nearby, his tethered horse whinnied and pawed the ground. In the distance she could hear the boom of muskets as the bird minders in some planter’s field tried to scare the September rice birds away from the ripening grain. The sounds of the horse and the guns increased her excitement; she was limp with satisfaction afterward.
“I worry about plantin’ a baby,” Forbes said, his handsome and sweaty face only inches above hers.
Ashton licked the corner of her mouth. “Seems to me the risk just adds a dash of spice.”
She really didn’t think there was much chance of a pregnancy. Huntoon was at her all the time, and she had thus far failed to conceive. She suspected some damage had been done by Aunt Belle Nin’s solution to her earlier problem. That might turn out to be a convenience, although the thought of being barren saddened her sometimes.
“It will until a youngster pops out who looks like me instead of your husband,” Forbes said.
“You let me fret about James. Your job’s right here.”
With that, she pulled him down into an embrace. The far-off explosions of the guns had excited her again.
She went home with her buttocks scraped red by the tabby, but it was worth it. Forbes was a fine lover, attentive and enthusiastic when he was with her but content to do without her until he was summoned again. Vanity prevented Ashton from asking where Forbes practiced his considerable skills when she was absent. If there were others, they obviously couldn’t compare to her; Forbes came running at her every call.
On the return trip to Mont Royal—Forbes accompanied her to within a mile of the plantation—they had another of their obsessive discussions of various ways they might injure Billy Hazard. Forbes was always fascinated by Ashton’s inventive imagination, not least because it was so centered on power, sexual adventure, and revenge.
“Saw that you entertained Mr. Yancey a few days ago,” Orry remarked at supper that night.
Ashton had been quite proud of the half column that the Mercury had devoted to the gathering. “’Deed we did,” she answered. “He had some peppery things to say about the Yankees. So did James. ’Course”—she turned to Brett, who was seated opposite her—“we make exceptions for friends of the family.”
“I was wondering about that,” Brett said, not smiling.
“Surely we do. Billy’s special.” Ashton’s smile was sweet and flawlessly sincere. Inside, her feelings were so intense, venomous, her stomach hurt. “Has he said anything about a wedding date?”
Orry answered the question. “No. He doesn’t even graduate until next June. What’s a second lieutenant earn these days? A thousand dollars a year? A family can’t live on that. I’d say it’s much too soon to discuss marriage.”
Brett’s eyes flashed as she looked at her brother. “We haven’t.”
But they would one of these days, Ashton felt. That might be the ideal moment to strike; just when they were happiest.
After supper, Ashton walked to the family burying ground. A strong, steady wind had come up. Her hair whipped around her head like a dark flag. She knelt at the foot of Tillet’s grave, the only place s
he ever felt ashamed of her behavior with men. She spoke softly but with great emotion.
“Things are going splendidly for James, Papa. I wish you could be here to see. I know you wanted another son instead of a daughter, but I’ll make you proud of me, just like I’ve promised before. I’ll be a famous lady. They’ll know my name all over the South. They’ll beg me for favors. And James too. I swear that to you, Papa. I swear.”
When Ashton left the house, Orry went up to his mother’s room to visit for a little while. Clarissa was polite and cheerful, but she didn’t recognize him. On her work table lay her third version of the family tree. The first two had been erased so hard, so often, that they had fallen to pieces.
Walking downstairs again, he thought about Billy and Brett. He was glad they weren’t interested in marrying the moment Billy left West Point. He didn’t know how he’d react if Billy asked for his sister’s hand right now. All he could see in the future was turmoil.
He let himself into the library and blew out the one lamp already burning. He threw the shutters back and inhaled the cool evening air. It smelled of autumn and the river. His gaze drifted lazily about the room, settling on the shadowed corner. He stared at his uniform. He reminded himself that he had a crop to harvest. He had no interest in it.
What had happened to Madeline?
That was the question savaging him these days. She had become a recluse. She seldom left Resolute, and when she did, she was always in the company of her husband. Orry had passed the LaMotte carriage on the river road a few weeks ago. He had waved at the passengers—almost too enthusiastically, he feared. He needn’t have worried. Madeline’s response was exactly like her husband’s: a fixed smile, a steady stare, a hand barely lifted in greeting as the carriage rattled on down the road and out of sight.
From a bookshelf he took Leaves of Grass, still in its brown paper wrapping. He’d had no opportunity to present it to Madeline. She no longer called on Clarissa or responded to his pleas for a meeting. Three times during the summer he had waited at Salvation Chapel, hoping she would appear in response to one of the notes he had sent covertly to Resolute. She never did.
The last time he waited, he found broken branches and trampled grass, suggesting that other lovers had discovered the ruined church. He didn’t go back. In desperation he asked one of his house slaves to try to learn whether his notes might have been intercepted. Nancy had run away months ago, so the whole system of communication could have broken down. But apparently it hadn’t, at least not the way he feared. Within a few days the slave reported, “I heard from Resolute, Mr. Orry. She gets the notes, all right. Girl name Cassiopeia takes ’em to her.”
“Does Mrs. LaMotte read them?”
“Far as I can find out, she does. But then she tears ’em up or throws ’em in the fireplace.”
Recalling that, Orry struck out with the book. He accidentally hit the uniform stand and sent it toppling. The crash brought Brett and two house girls. Without opening the door, he shouted that he was all right.
A thought occurred to him, renewing his hope. On Saturday there was to be a tournament near the Six Oaks. It was possible that Madeline would attend with Justin. Orry usually avoided such affairs, but he would go to this one. He might have a chance to speak with her, discover what was wrong.
Saturday’s weather was close, showery, with rumbles of thunder. A large and enthusiastic crowd gathered for the tourney, but Orry had no interest in watching the young men who had christened themselves Sir Gawain or Sir Kay. As they rode recklessly at the hanging rings and tried to capture them on their lances, he roamed the crowd searching for the LaMottes.
He finally spied Justin conversing boisterously with his brother and several other men. Encouraged, he kept moving, looking for Madeline. He caught sight of her from the spot where Cousin Charles had stood and waited for Whitney Smith to fire at him. She was seated on a log, watching light rain stipple the river.
He approached, noticing that the log had dirtied her skirt. She must have heard his footsteps, but she didn’t turn. Feeling awkward, adolescent—fearful—he cleared his throat.
“Madeline?”
She rose slowly. He stepped back when he saw her face. It was white, the pallor of sickness. She had lost weight; ten or fifteen pounds at least. The loss gave her cheeks a sunken look. She seemed to struggle to focus her eyes on him.
“Orry. How pleasant to see you.”
She smiled, but it was the same perfunctory smile he had glimpsed when he encountered the carriage. He could barely stand the sight of her eyes. They had always been so lively and warm. Now—
“Madeline, what’s wrong? Why haven’t you answered my messages?” Though there was no one else close, he was whispering.
A troubled look flickered across her face. She glanced past his shoulder. Then her eyes met his again. He thought he saw pain there, and an appeal for help. He strode toward her.
“I can see something’s wrong. You’ve got to tell me—”
“Madeline?” Justin’s voice jerked him up short. “Please come join us, my dear. We’ll be leaving soon.”
Orry turned, trying to keep his movement casual, belying the tension within him. Madeline’s husband had called from the other side of the dueling field. To allay possible suspicion, Orry tipped his hat in formal greeting, which Justin acknowledged in the same way. Orry kept his smile broad and rigid, as if he were only exchanging pleasantries with a neighbor’s wife.
In reality he was whispering: “I must talk to you alone at least once.”
She looked at him again. Longingly, he thought. But she sighed and said, “No, I’m sorry, it’s just too difficult.”
With a slow, almost languorous step, she walked away to rejoin her husband. Orry was fuming; he wanted to seize Justin by the throat and shake him until the man told him what was wrong. Clearly Madeline wouldn’t. She acted listless, dazed—as if she were in the grip of a fever.
But it was the memory of her eyes that tortured him as he rode homeward. They held a strange, submissive look, devoid of hope; lifeless, almost. They were the eyes of a beaten animal.
40
ABOUT TO DON THE yellow facings and brass castle insignia of the Corps of Engineers, Billy Hazard could examine his world and declare it a fine place.
The fears of the New Jersey cadet whom Ashton had entertained had never been realized. The silence of the seven had evidently kept any rumor from reaching Charles. One of the group had grumbled to Billy that Ashton must have lied about a second visit—something he could have told them from the beginning. But after that, the incident was gradually forgotten under the continual pressure of military drill and academic work.
Billy’s view of the world tended to be shaped by events in his daily life and not by what was happening elsewhere. Had he looked outward, beyond the Academy and his thoughts of Brett, he would have seen turmoil.
Bloody warfare continued in the Crimea. One of his brother’s classmates, George McClellan, had been sent there to observe by Secretary Davis. Other kinds of violence boded ill for America. Men fought each other in Kansas—and in the halls of Congress. During a speech about Kansas, Senator Sumner of Massachusetts had mingled his political rhetoric with an unwarranted personal attack on Senator Andrew Butler of South Carolina. On the twenty-second of May, Congressman Preston Brooks of South Carolina strode into the Senate chamber with a gold-knobbed cane, which he proceeded to employ to demonstrate what he thought of the speech, and Sumner.
Sumner soon cried for mercy as blood dripped onto his desk. Brooks kept hitting him until the cane broke. Incredibly, other senators looked on without interfering. One of the bystanders was Douglas, whose legislation had created the very issue Sumner had addressed.
A few weeks later, Brett wrote Billy a letter saying Brooks was being feted all over South Carolina. Ashton and her husband had entertained him at their home and presented to him a cane inscribed with words of admiration. The cane was one of dozens Brooks received. The letter
continued:
When James and Ashton were here last week, Orry remarked that Sumner might not recover for a year or more. James raised one eyebrow and said, “So quickly? What a pity.” I hate these times, Billy. They seem to call forth the very worst in men.
Not even those sentiments could discourage Billy just then. He was only days from leaving the Academy, and he had done well there, particularly in his first-class year: Mahan had publicly praised his work in the military and civil engineering course. Billy could differentiate between Pinus mitis and Pinus strobus, write an essay on argillaceous and calcareous stones as construction materials, or recite the formula for grubstone mortar in his sleep. He would graduate sixth in overall standings in the class of 1856.
George, Constance, Maude, even Stanley and Isabel were coming to West Point for the event; George and Isabel could manage to speak to each other when the occasion required it. The conversation was always cool and formal, however; the ban on visiting between the two houses was still in force. Billy had heard Constance say it was a shame to hold grudges considering life was so short, to which George replied that precisely because it was short, anything that prevented him from wasting part of it in Isabel’s company was a godsend.
Charles congratulated Billy on his class ranking while relieving him of blankets and personal cadet effects. Charles had never competed academically with his friend; he remained steadfastly a member of the Immortals, bound for the mounted service, exactly what he wanted. Prospects for advancement in the cavalry—in all branches, in fact—had greatly improved since Davis had pushed through an expansion of the Army a year ago. Two new regiments of infantry had been authorized, and two of cavalry. Superintendent Lee had already been transferred to the new mounted regiment commanded by Albert Sidney Johnston, another Academy graduate. Charles hoped to join one of the new units next year.
