by John Jakes
59
SUMTER FELT MORE LIKE a prison every day.
Billy occupied a dank, brick-walled room in the officer’s quarters along the gorge. The room was doubly dismal because it was dark most of the time. The garrison had almost used up the candles and matches Mrs. Doubleday had purchased in January, one day before she and the other garrison wives went North. Billy had one waxy stub left. He lit it for only a few minutes each day while he added a mark to his improvised calendar—vertical lines scraped into the wall with a fragment of brick. So far in February he had marked the wall twenty-one times.
He no longer saw Brett. He was not one of those detailed to travel over to the city every couple of days, there to purchase some salt pork and vegetables. This reprovisioning was carried out with the sufferance of Governor Pickens, at the urging of some prominent gentlemen of Charleston.
Some other gentlemen, equally prominent, hated the idea of the garrison’s receiving food and mail, and said so frequently. One of Brett’s letters informed Billy that Rhett of the Mercury was particularly strong about starving the garrison into surrender. Billy suspected the governor had the same objective and was merely pursuing it in a different way. Pickens had refused to permit the forty-three civilian masons and bricklayers to leave Fort Sumter. Presumably they would continue to devour provisions, thus hastening the day when Anderson would have to ask for terms. Several officers were outspoken in saying that the governor was bluffing, that he had no power to issue such an edict. Doubleday argued that the workmen could be dumped ashore in the dead of night if Anderson truly wanted to be rid of them. He didn’t say it to Anderson’s face, however, and the commandant, sensitive to the immense danger in any confrontation with local authorities, didn’t push for a test of the question.
Brett reported that the provision detail marched to and from the Charleston market with loaded muskets. Crowds followed the soldiers, and now and again someone yelled Doubleday’s name. He was the most hated man in the fort, a known Black Republican. If he ever set foot in the city, she predicted, he would be mobbed and hanged. So, like Billy, Doubleday remained a prisoner in the harbor.
Billy kept as busy as he could. When the masons under his command finished bricking up the unused windows in the second-tier casemates, Foster put them all to work on the main gate. A thick wall of stone was mortared into place on the inside, with just a single, iron-covered bolt hole left in the center. As soon as wall and bolt hole were done, Anderson ordered a twenty-four-pound howitzer moved up to cover the new, smaller entrance.
Everyone in the fort had fallen into a kind of stupor. Working hours were long; tension heightened normal tiredness. The toll was particularly heavy on Captains Seymour and Doubleday. They alternated as officers of the day and spent every other night awake.
The seriousness of the situation made the soldiers more candid, less concerned with protocol. This was demonstrated one afternoon when Doubleday and Billy watched from the parapet as a small schooner warped in to a wharf on Morris Island. The schooner was carrying railroad plate that would be spiked to the slanted timber face of a battery under construction on Cummings Point, little more than twelve hundred yards away.
“Look at that,” Doubleday exclaimed. “We’re giving them all the time in the world to place their guns and bring up their ammunition.”
It was true. From Moultrie, now heavily fortified with cotton bales and sandbags, all the way around to Cummings Point, cannon menaced the harbor fort. Their state artillery crews practiced regularly. Right this moment Billy could see men scurrying around a dozen guns while above them strange flags with palmetto or pelican devices fluttered in the sunshine.
Like most others in the garrison, Billy found Major Anderson a decent, conscientious man—if rather old and pious. He felt compelled to respond to the implied criticism.
“If the major tried to stop it, he might plunge this whole country into a shooting war. I wouldn’t want that responsibility, sir.”
“Nor I,” Doubleday snapped. “Believe me, I appreciate the dilemma, but it doesn’t change the fact that hesitation deepens our danger.”
“Do you think that peace conference will help matters?” Billy asked. The state of Virginia had issued the call for the conference, and ex-President Tyler had convened it at Willard’s Hotel in Washington. But some important states, including Michigan and California, had refused to send delegates.
Doubleday’s answer to the question was blunt: “No. In my opinion we can’t save the Union and slavery too.” He thumped the parapet with his fist. “I wish the major would forget his orders for an hour and let us reduce those batteries. If we don’t, we’ll soon be surrounded by a ring of fire.”
A ring of fire. An apt term, Billy thought as he watched stevedores continuing to unload the schooner’s cargo. South Carolina guns were trained on Sumter from every direction except seaward. Wasn’t it inevitable that someone, impetuously if not on direct order, would discharge one of those pieces at the fort and start a war?
Brett’s next note confirmed the impending danger. War fever was running high in Charleston. Doubleday and others in the garrison assumed this was why President Davis moved forcefully to take over the Charleston batteries in the name of the new government. Davis also dispatched official Confederate emissaries to Washington to sue for a surrender of the disputed property.
It was from Anderson himself, a few nights later, that Billy heard one more surprising piece of news. “Davis is sending his own officer to command the batteries.” The major sighed. “Beauregard.”
They stood by one of the ten-inch columbiads on the barbette. Half of Sumter’s forty-eight usable guns were mounted in the open, the other half in the casemates below. About fifty yards off the fort, the Nina was passing. She was one of the pair of guard steamers the state kept on constant patrol in the harbor. Sharpshooters at her stern recognized Anderson, hailed him, and flung mock salutes. The tall, hollow-eyed commander remained motionless.
“Captain Beauregard of Louisiana?” Billy said.
“Brigadier General Beauregard now. Confederate States of America. When I taught artillery at the Academy in thirty-six and thirty-seven, he was one of my best pupils. He was so good, I retained him as an assistant instructor after he graduated.” The major’s gaze drifted to the iron battery rapidly nearing completion on Cummings Point. “I expect we’ll soon see a more professional placement of many of the guns.”
Then Anderson swung to face his subordinate. Sunset light falling over Charleston’s rooftops and steeples emphasized the lined look of his face. “But I’ve been meaning to inquire about your young lady, Lieutenant. Is she still in the city?”
“Yes, sir. I get a letter every day or so.”
“The two of you still want to marry?”
“Very much, sir. But that doesn’t appear practicable right now.”
“Don’t be too sure. As you know, Captain Foster doesn’t wish to see you gentlemen from the engineers do line service”—all the engineering lieutenants had volunteered as officers of the guard, but Foster had vetoed the idea—“so when your work is finished, I shall keep your situation in mind.”
Billy’s hope soared. Yet at the same time he felt another pull. “That’s good of you, sir, but I wouldn’t want to leave if there were to be hostilities.”
“There will be no hostilities,” Anderson whispered. “None of which we initiate in any case. Can you imagine the catastrophic results if Americans were to open fire on other Americans? That kind of collision will not take place because of any action of mine, and I’m not ashamed to say I fall on my knees every night and beg God to help me keep that vow.”
The contrast with Doubleday’s simmering pugnacity was clear. Billy watched the sun fading from the roof peaks and turned his mind to the hope Anderson had held out. He hardly dared think about it because of the great possibility of disappointment.
Slowly he gazed around the harbor, picking out the various batteries on the sand and mud flats. He id
entified each in terms of its armament: columbiads, mortars, twenty-four and thirty-two- and even forty-two-pounders.
A ring of fire. Waiting to be ignited by order or mischance. As the sun sank, he felt a renewed, almost overwhelming pessimism.
That same evening Orry stepped off a river schooner at the Mont Royal landing. Twenty minutes later he joined Charles in the library.
“What’s the situation in Charleston?” the younger man asked as he poured two glasses of whiskey.
“Bad. Business is stagnating. The merchants are starting to squeal.”
“Are people leaving?”
“On the contrary. The city’s never seen so many tourists. But they’re spending only what they must. The same goes for the home folk.”
“Can’t say it surprises me. Who wants to throw money away when civil war may erupt any minute, and two weeks from now bread could cost twenty dollars a loaf?”
With a smile that was more of a grimace, Charles sank back into a chair and flung one leg over the side. His homecoming had been pleasant for a day or two, but very quickly that sense of enjoyment had left him. He and Orry had discussed Elkanah Bent at some length, and although few new facts were added to what Charles already knew, he was once again depressed by the magnitude of the man’s hate. Surely it would burn itself out if war erupted. In any case, he was reasonably certain their paths would never cross again.
Bent wasn’t the only cause of his malaise. He missed the West and, to his surprise, no longer felt entirely at home in his native state. He didn’t dare admit that he could think of but one antidote for his uneasiness: fighting.
“The news gets worse,” Orry remarked after sipping from his glass. “There is a considerable amount of bad feeling about the new government. When forming it, Davis appears to have ignored South Carolina.”
Charles digested that, then put the subject aside. He asked, “How is everyone at Tradd Street holding up?”
“Cooper’s doing as well as can be expected, considering that the cargo ship is now a lost cause and part of his land has been commandeered for another iron battery.”
“I gather it was a choice between consenting or facing the possibility of a mob burning down the yard. Judith and Brett are looking after Cooper, but he’s pretty despondent. His worst fears have been realized.”
“Did you see Ashton?”
“No. I’m told James is thick with Governor Pickens, and despite Montgomery’s evident disdain for South Carolinians, they say James is maneuvering for a post there. Oh, and one more thing—I have it on good authority that all these war preparations have left the state dead broke.”
“What about that seven-hundred-thousand-dollar loan they’re trying to place?”
“No takers.”
“Well, maybe things’ll veer back to normal somehow. Maybe the issue of the fort will be settled peaceably.”
“President Davis has said he’ll take Sumter by negotiation or he’ll take it by force. Lincoln will be inaugurated in a couple of weeks—perhaps then we’ll have some clue as to which it will be.”
The two former soldiers stared at one another in the darkening library, neither in doubt about the outcome that was wanted by those who were in control of the state.
Some forty-eight hours later, Huntoon was standing at the rail of the guard steamer Nina. He held a plate of chicken salad in one hand, a glass of Tokay in the other.
A party of thirty gentlemen had come aboard for this sunset cruise to inspect the disputed fort. On the afterdeck a buffet had been spread beneath a striped awning. The food had been prepared by a select committee of ladies, of which Ashton had contrived to become a prominent member. Half a dozen slaves from as many households had been ordered out to staff the serving area.
The wind blew briskly from the northeast, promising a chilly February night. As Huntoon munched away, Nina completed a turn in the main ship channel and put in toward the city, white water purling off her paddles.
“You know, Governor,” Huntoon remarked to the man standing next to him, “the lack of decisive action is becoming an irritant to many citizens.”
“My hands are tied,” Pickens retorted. “General Beauregard will be here soon, and as far as the interim is concerned, President Davis has let me know in unmistakable language that he is the one in charge, not I.”
“Hmmm.” Huntoon sipped his wine. “I thought the palmetto state seceded to preserve its sovereign rights. Have we already surrendered them to another central government?”
Pickens glanced over his shoulder, apprehensive about eavesdroppers. “I wouldn’t speak so loudly—or so critically. Not if you still hope to earn yourself a place in Montgomery.”
“I certainly do. It appears to me that men of principle and courage are sorely needed down there. We must force the issue.”
“James, you’re too precipitous,” the governor began, but the younger man immediately interrupted.
“Nonsense, sir. If we don’t act, others will. Yesterday I heard serious discussion of a new secession movement. Some influential planters in this state are talking of pulling away from the Davis government and petitioning Great Britain to make South Carolina a protectorate.”
“That’s preposterous,” Pickens exclaimed, but his voice had a nervous note in it. And with good reason. Lately, his friend and colleague in secession, Bob Rhett, had heard rumors of a reconstruction plan that Stephen Douglas was promoting in a last-ditch effort to save the Union. The governor wanted no part of lunatic schemes to establish a British colony, but neither did he want reconciliation.
“We must act with restraint for a while longer. The Davis emissaries will fail in Washington. By then Beauregard will be in place, and we’ll have our war.”
“I do hope so,” Huntoon murmured.
His attention was abruptly caught by the sight of an officer watching from Fort Sumter’s terreplein. He recognized Billy Hazard. He lifted his wineglass to salute him.
The Yankee upstart nodded with inattentive casualness. Huntoon found the response offensive. We’ll have our war, and you will be among its first casualties, he thought as the guard steamer chugged on toward the city piers.
60
THE HAND ON BRETT’S arm was bruising. The voice had the high, flat accent of the up-country.
“Here, my lass, all I asked was directions to—”
“Ask someone else.” She hauled off and drove the point of her shoe into the man’s shinbone.
He swore and called her a name. The odor of his whiskey breath fumed around her as she tore from his grip and fled down Meeting Street. The man, a burly young fellow in soiled clothes and a broad-brimmed wool hat, lurched after her.
Impelled by fear, she ran swiftly in the February dusk. She dashed to the right, into Tradd Street. Her pursuer yelled something about Charleston whores but came no farther than the corner.
A moment later she risked a look back. The man was moving across Meeting, a passing shadow among others. She shuddered.
Charleston was swarming with visitors from all parts of the South. They had come to sightsee, to watch the fuses of practice shells sketch red lines in the night sky, to listen to street-corner Ciceros denounce the awkward ape from Illinois, to marvel at the precise drill of the Citadel cadets, and to murmur over the gaudy colors and designs of the uniforms of the state military units.
Most of the visitors were still spending very little. And a lot were riffraff, like the young man from whom she had just fled. He had accosted her as she was hurrying home from the public market, where she had given a hamper of cheese, bread, candles, and matches to the shopping detail from Fort Sumter.
There, too, she had faced a measure of danger. She could still see the venomous faces and hear the epithets as she passed the hamper to a corporal. Traitor was the mildest name she had been called; most of the names were filthy.
“Mr. Rhett and his crowd are always railing against the Northern mobocracy,” she said to Judith after she was once more safe in the house
. “I’d say we have our own mobocracy right here in Charleston.”
“Feeling seems to run higher every day,” Judith agreed. She reached out to tap her sturdy son’s wrist. “Judah, don’t play in the oyster stew.”
But the boy continued to trail his spoon back and forth through the bowl. On the other side of the table, Marie-Louise fidgeted. “Mama, is Papa going to be gone again tonight?”
“Yes, he’s very busy these days.”
The eyes of Judith and Brett met briefly; both understood the lie just uttered. No business reasons compelled Cooper to linger on James Island after dark. Construction on the Star of Carolina had come to a halt weeks ago. Yet he went back to the yard day after day and stayed until midnight or later. Haggard and emaciated, he was behaving like some ghoulish spectator at the scene of a railway disaster, sifting through the wreckage in search of an explanation—as if explanation could undo the damage. Brett worried about her brother almost as much as she worried about Billy.
“Oh, you must see the New York Herald that Cooper brought home day before yesterday,” Judith exclaimed. “There’s a new play being performed there. It’s all about Fort Sumter. The paper gives the name of the actor who’s personating Lieutenant William Hazard.”’
“You mean the characters are named for real people?”
“I do. Anderson, Doubleday—they’re all in it.”
“Is that art or greed?”
“More the latter, I suspect,” Judith replied.
Brett sighed. How bizarre the city and the nation had become in only a matter of weeks. Little by little Americans had gotten mired in a kind of genteel madness in which very little was unthinkable. Worst of all, the madness threatened the young man she loved. Everyone said there would be war the moment Lincoln was inaugurated. Beauregard would give the command to the batteries, and the eighty men at Sumter would be killed by cannon fire or by the bayonets and musket balls of storming parties.
She had nightmares about that, nightmares about attending Billy’s funeral. She feared those dark dreams so much that she could hardly go to sleep these nights. Since leaving Mont Royal she had lost twelve pounds, and great circles of shadow ringed her eyes.
