North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  He was in for a surprise on that score. On the day before Orry’s departure, another letter from Stanley arrived. Stanley said he had referred George’s case to a new friend, Simon Cameron, Democratic senator from Pennsylvania.

  “The senator’s a prime reason the Democracy stinks to heaven in our state,” George told his friend. “He’s crooked as a snake with convulsions, and he taints the whole party. Stanley’s always mumbling about having political ambitions, but I never dreamed he’d cozy up to someone like Cameron.”

  “Does your brother have a talent for politics?”

  “In my opinion, Orry, you enter politics when you’re incapable of doing honest work. But the answer to your question is no. My brother has never been blessed with an overabundance of brains. Cameron would be interested in Stanley for only one reason: the size of his bank account. Wire pulling in Washington—God above!” George slapped a fist into a palm. “That makes me as bad as Bent. I’ll write Stanley and tell him to stop it immediately.”

  Next morning the friends said good-bye. Orry was traveling to the coast in a wagon train carrying wounded and several companies of home-bound volunteers.

  It was an awkward moment for both of them. Orry asked George to stop at Mont Royal on his way north. George said he’d try. He wasn’t anxious to be a witness to his friend’s continuing deterioration. Orry was peaked. He’d lost twenty pounds. There was a beaten look about him as he walked off to find the wagon to which he had been assigned.

  George’s letter of protest was sent too late. Three weeks after he dispatched it, Captain Hoctor called him in.

  “Your orders have just come through, specially processed by Secretary Marcy’s office. I didn’t know the sons of rich ironmakers qualified as hardship cases.” The sardonic remark was met by a bleak stare. Hoctor cleared his throat. “In any case, you’ll be discharged right here, one week from Friday.”

  Afterward, Hoctor tried to understand why that piece of good news had caused the lieutenant to break into a storm of cursing. The captain was glad to be rid of such an obvious troublemaker.

  The next wagon train was scheduled to leave the morning after George’s discharge became official. By then he had done a lot of thinking. He had been a pusillanimous worm to let Constance Flynn’s religion cause him even one moment’s hesitation. From Vera Cruz he would travel straight to Corpus Christi by whatever means of transportation was available.

  The night before the wagons departed, George got roaring drunk with Pickett and Grant. He was awake an hour before daylight. His stomach ached, his head throbbed, and his mouth tasted brown. An hour later he encountered Major Elkanah Bent for the first time since Churubusco.

  George hurried by without saluting; he feared that with the slightest provocation he might commit murder.

  Bent called him back. “Why are you out of uniform, Lieutenant?”

  “Because I’m out of the Army, Major.”

  George’s temples hurt. He knew he was slipping out of control. He didn’t care.

  Bent digested the news with a disappointed look. George went on, “Congratulations on your promotion. You earned it at the expense of my friend Orry Main. If it weren’t for you, he’d still be a whole man. Everyone thinks you’re a damn hero, but we both know what you tried to do on the Churubusco road, Major.”

  “Let go of my arm, you arrogant little—”

  George hit him then. He felt the impact all the way to his shoulder. Bent’s nose exploded with mucus and blood. George walked away with a slow, firm stride, the Ohioan too stunned—perhaps too frightened—to retaliate.

  George’s fist felt as if it were broken. He had never known pain to be so satisfying.

  13

  GEORGE ARRIVED IN CORPUS Christi at the end of October. The air was bracing, cool even at midday. When he stepped from the lighter to the dock, it was just four in the afternoon, but the sun was already sinking. Buildings cast long shadows. The light had the unmistakable look of autumn, brilliant and feeble at the same time.

  The scene induced feelings of melancholy. The year was hastening to an end, and so was his time on earth. Mexico had given him an awareness of death unusual in young men; he supposed that was a price you paid for going to war, even if you came out on the winning side. Still, having learned the lesson, he wouldn’t be so foolish as to ignore it. That was why he had come straight from Vera Cruz.

  There was no one at the dock to meet him. His spirits fell even further. But they lifted suddenly when he heard a cry—”Here I am, George !”—and saw Constance appear around the corner of a building.

  She wore one of those newfangled crinoline-stiffened skirts, which swayed back and forth like a ship in a storm as she tried to run. The color of the dress was emerald, very becoming.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. I took extra time getting ready—I wanted to look nice for you—and then I discovered it’s impossible to hurry when you’re dressed this way. Oh, I wanted to be waiting when your boat docked—”

  She was laughing and crying too. He put his valise down. Her hand moved from his arm to his face, as if to test for wholeness, soundness, now that he was back from the war zone.

  “I was devastated to hear about your father. I never expected you’d have time to stop here on your way home.”

  “My father’s funeral was weeks ago. A few more days won’t matter. I have”—he nearly strangled over the words— “an important question to ask you.”

  “What is it?” A joyous smile said she knew.

  “I think I should speak to your father first.”

  “He’s waiting for us. Minding the lamb roast I cooked for you. But I need a kiss.”

  She released the front of her stiffened skirt, which she had been holding off the ground, and flung her arms around him. Because of the skirt’s bell shape, he had to lean forward from the waist to embrace her. His valise disappeared as her skirt dropped over it. That didn’t matter, nor did the expressions of other people on the dock; some were amused, one or two outraged. All he cared about were the words she whispered as they hugged each other.

  “Oh, George—how I missed you. I love you so.”

  While Constance finished setting the table, George took her father for a stroll. The necessary question came as no surprise to the little lawyer.

  “I thought the two of you would soon be wanting to marry. She has been preparing for your arrival for days. Did you notice all the issues of Godey’s near her sewing table? The patterns and other paraphernalia? The poor child’s driven me mad with her seams and thimbles—if that isn’t love, I don’t recognize the beast.”

  Flynn locked his hands behind his black broadcloth coat. “I’ve no basic objection to the match. But I have one question, and it’s serious.”

  He halted in the street and turned to face the younger man. “What will you do about the difference in your faiths?”

  “I’ll have to speak to Constance about her specific wishes, sir. I’ll make any accommodation necessary.”

  “Fair enough. But will your family welcome her?”

  “I’m sure of it,” George lied.

  “Then you may have her.”

  “Oh, sir, thank—”

  “On one condition!” Flynn’s upraised finger threw a long, skeletal shadow on the ground. Suddenly he gestured to the treeless horizon. “Marry her in the North. This is too dismal a place for a wedding. Besides, I’d like a trip. I’m sick of listening to people say that Congressman Wilmot is the son of the devil. A change of perspective is in order.”

  “You’ll have it,” George promised with a grin. The two of them started back in response to Constance’s call to supper.

  Later that evening the lovers walked hand in hand to the shore. Constance had donned a long, fur-fringed pelerine, but it was more decorative than functional. George put his arm around her to provide what warmth he could. A chilly breeze blew in across the harbor bar, bending the sea oats growing along the dunes. Stars shimmered in the river. Small white-water cr
ests showed out in the Gulf.

  “It gets much colder than this up North,” he said. “You’ll miss the warm climate, I’m afraid.”

  “Then you’ll just have to work very hard to keep me warm in bed.”

  He cleared his throat to conceal the embarrassment her teasing produced. She was a forthright girl—it was one of the many qualities he loved—and thus she often said things that would shock more conventional people. Perhaps her frontier upbringing accounted for some of that frankness. He hoped his family would understand.

  “Actually,” she went on, “I’ll be glad to go to a place where you don’t have to walk five hundred miles to find an abolitionist. I may involve myself in that work after we’re married.” They stopped near the top of a dune, both of them looking at the limitless Gulf. “Do you think your family would object?”

  He smiled. “Would you stop if they did?”

  “No. I don’t believe I could do that even for you.”

  “Good. If you did, you wouldn’t be the girl I fell in love with.” He bussed her cheek.

  “You didn’t answer about your family.”

  “Constance, once we’re married, you’re my family. Only you, and anyone else who might chance to belong to both of us.”

  Satisfied, she brought her mouth gently against his, then whispered, “I’ll try not to disappoint you there.”

  “You could never disappoint me in anything. I love you.”

  He moved behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, standing on her skirt in order to get close. She didn’t mind. She leaned against him.

  He raised his hands till they rested against the underside of her bosom. He feared she might be angry. Instead, she placed her hands over his, so that he pressed harder.

  “This is beautiful,” George said presently. “You’ll miss it.”

  “I know I’ll miss it sometimes. But I would miss you more.” She faced him after some awkward maneuvering made necessary by the skirt. Softly, earnestly, she said, “‘Where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people.’ The first chapter of the book of Ruth.” Again she touched her lips to his. “I read it so often while you were away, I know it by heart.”

  They laughed quietly, their foreheads touching. Her red hair tossed around them like a gossamer mantle. Walking home, they discussed practical matters, including wedding plans. George said he’d like Orry to stand up with him.

  “He will, won’t he?”

  “I’m not sure,” George replied with a frown. “The war robbed him of more than a limb. I’m worried about him. Though I really don’t want to, I’m going to stop at Mont Royal on my way home.”

  14

  SEVERAL MILES BELOW THE plantation, George smelled smoke. The late-November sky, already dark, grew darker still. Alarmed, he asked the captain of the river sloop whether one of the buildings might be afire.

  The captain gave him a superior look. “Doubt it, sir. They’re burning off the stubble, I expect.”

  The air grew noisy with the caw of unseen birds. The black billows continued to roll over the treetops and the river. Soon George was coughing. And when the sloop docked, Orry was nowhere to be seen, although George had written to say he was coming.

  He didn’t know whether to blame the postal service or his friend’s state of mind. He tramped up the pier, the smoke irritating his eyes and throat. He felt as if he were back in the war zone.

  From a three-high stack of rice casks a figure came hurtling down at him. George dodged and caught his breath. He smiled without much humor.

  “Scared the daylights out of me, Charles.”

  “Oh,” said the boy who had jumped. “I thought you saw me up there.” He offered no apology.

  George’s heartbeat returned to normal. Cousin Charles went on, “Orry sent me to fetch you. He’s working over in Hull Square.” He dug some dirt from under a fingernail with his huge bowie knife.

  An elderly house servant hobbled toward them along the pier. Charles scowled at the Negro. “Cicero, step lively or I’ll carve out your gizzard.” Charles lunged with the knife. The old black yelped and leaped away. He missed the edge of the pier and landed in the shallows with a mighty splash. Charles ran to look down at him.

  “God above, Cicero—I was only sporting with you.”

  “How’s I to know that?” the old man panted as Charles helped him out of the water. “Sometimes you really take after folks with that wicked thing.”

  Charles shoved the knife into his belt. “I only take after Smiths and LaMottes, never niggers. Now you get busy and carry Mr. Hazard’s bag up to the house.”

  Water dripped from the old man’s face and clothes. His brown toes showed through holes in the tips of his squeaking shoes. He picked up George’s valise and hurried off, not eager to prolong the encounter with Cousin Charles.

  “Come on,” the boy said, still amused. He couldn’t be more than eleven, but he looked four or five years older. He had shot up several inches since George had seen him last. His shoulders had widened considerably. George wished he looked half as tough, and half as handsome.

  Charles led him along the embankments separating the large, square fields. Smoke rose from three fields on the right. In each, slaves were using hoes to drag burning brush through the stubble to set it afire. All the workers were women. Their dresses were tied up at their knees. Bandannas protected their hair. In the distance, seated on a mule on another embankment, George saw Salem Jones. With his quirt and stick, the overseer resembled an equestrian statue.

  George took Charles’s advice and pressed a kerchief over his mouth. The black women seemed unaffected by the fire-shot smoke. Perhaps they had been forced to inhale it for so many years it no longer bothered them. When the flames advanced too fast, the women ran to the nearest irrigation ditch and jumped to safety. “Fire gonna catch you !” he heard one exclaim. “Better run!”

  Hollering and laughing, the others did. It hardly seemed like a game to George. More like a picture of the Inferno. But perhaps the stubble burning brought a welcome excitement into plantation routine.

  “Not far now,” Charles said, beckoning him on toward fields already burned free of stubble. In these, huge flocks of black birds and wild ducks were noisily attacking the ground. Hunting for unsprouted grains, Charles said in response to George’s question. In the growing seasons the Mains fought the birds, but in the burning season they counted on their help.

  Loud hammering drew George’s attention to the embankment next to the river. There he spied Orry, the only white in a group of six men. Orry was pounding nails into the gate of one of the culverts leading to the river. A nervous Negro positioned each nail and quickly retreated before Orry struck the first blow. He wielded the hammer with great arcing strokes.

  Why in God’s name would Orry try to do carpentry when he was crippled? George couldn’t imagine. Then he realized Orry must be working so furiously precisely because he was crippled.

  At last Orry finished. He turned to his friend who stood waiting nearby.

  “Hello, George. Sorry I didn’t meet you. These boys botched the repairs. I had to show them how to do it right.” He dropped the hammer, paying no attention to the fact that it narrowly missed a slave’s foot.

  George was shocked seeing Orry up close. His friend looked older. Gaunt, grim, almost biblical. His unkempt beard hung halfway down his chest. The left sleeve of his filthy white blouse was pinned up at the shoulder.

  “How have you been?” George asked as they walked in the direction of the great house.

  “Busy.” Orry fairly spat the word. “I’m trying to work myself back into the routine of things as fast as I can. Father’s too old to do it all himself, and Cooper’s leaving. Right after dinner today, as a matter of fact.”

  George’s eyebrows shot up. “Where’s he going?”

  “Charleston. By mutual agreement with Father. It’s a sort of self-exile, I reckon you’d call it. Cooper just can’t get along with Father anymore. He has
too many radical ideas, and both of them realize it. Cooper offered to move out before the quarrels got any worse.”

  It was stunning news; no wonder Orry acted upset.

  “Will he get a job?”

  “There’s one waiting for him. A year ago a man owed Father a lot of money and couldn’t pay. He signed over his only possession—a little cotton packet company. The assets aren’t much: two old side-wheel steamers, a broken-down warehouse, and a dock. Father doesn’t give two pins for the whole thing. That’s why he didn’t fuss when Cooper said he’d take it over and run it. I’m glad to see you, George, but it’s a bad time to visit Mont Royal. People have been shouting at each other for days.”

  You included? George wondered, but kept the question to himself. How haggard and hollow-eyed Orry looked. The sight of his friend in such a state saddened him.

  “I had to stop,” he explained, noticing that Cousin Charles had departed. He spied the boy down in the nearest field, grinning and patting the bottom of a black woman twice his age. “I’m going to marry Constance. I’d like you to be best man.”

  “That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.” Orry didn’t shake his friend’s hand or even break stride. He put his hand behind him, hunting for his handkerchief in his right rear pocket.

  “It’s in the other one,” George said, reaching for it.

  “I can get it.” Grim-faced, Orry strained to extend his hand across the small of his back. He caught the tip of the handkerchief and plucked it out.

  “Will you stand up with me, Orry?”

  “What? Oh, yes, certainly. Provided the work here isn’t too heavy. I hope you don’t mind eating dinner with my father and Cooper. It probably won’t be very pleasant.”

  Nothing at Mont Royal was pleasant that day. George wished he hadn’t come. He made up his mind to leave as soon as possible.

  Dinner proved as uncomfortable as Orry had predicted. Tillet, too, looked years older than George remembered. He and Cooper confined themselves to a desultory discussion of several matters relating to the little steamship company. Even an outsider could see Tillet had no interest in the subject. He merely wanted a safe topic for conversation.