North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  In the parlor she used sewing scissors to clip the item about the play. Two loud thuds in quick succession made her jump.

  Mortars, she realized. The Mount Pleasant battery. She had gotten so she could identify the source of every practice round. She was not the only Charlestonian with that newfound talent.

  As the booming echoes faded, she gave a small exclamation, discovering that as the mortars went off, the scissors had slipped. The point had pricked the fleshy part of her left palm, and she hadn’t even felt it. She watched a brilliant crimson drop ooze out and trickle toward her wrist. Another drop formed.

  The sight of blood, coming hard upon the artillery fire and following the drunken manhandling on the street and the cursing at the market, shattered her emotional defenses. “Billy,” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes. “Billy.”

  She pressed the bloodied hand to her mouth and fought to control her fear.

  “You mean their damn President had to sneak into Washington?”

  “Yessir. He was wearin’ cast-off clothes and so was his detective hireling, Pinkerton. They arrived on a sleeper in the middle of the night like common travelers. Like criminals!”

  “Why’d Lincoln get off the regular train?”

  “Feared a plot to assassinate him, they say. If I’d been close by, I might have lent a hand With—oh, evening, Mr. Main.”

  “Gentlemen.”

  With an expression of distaste, Cooper nodded at the men but did not tip his hat. The two were corporals in some state artillery unit that reported to the commander of the James Island forces, Major Evans.

  Cooper had overheard the gloating conversation as he approached from the back of the shed the state authorities had constructed at the edge of his shipyard, having advised him in writing that the structure would be put up with or without his permission. Inside the shed stood a special ordnance furnace, its coals banked now. During a bombardment, the furnace would heat shot intended to start fires within Fort Sumter.

  Churlish louts, Cooper thought as he stomped past the men and the shed. He coughed hard in the night damp. Out on Sumter a blue signal light was glowing. Looking at that, he wasn’t forced to look at the keelson of the unfinished vessel. It sat there in the thickening mist, a mockery of all his dreams for the South. Well, he was no different from Brunel in that respect. The little engineer had seen his dream demolished, too.

  Cooper noticed lights in a mortar battery farther down the shore. He decided not to continue walking in that direction. He squatted and let handfuls of sandy loam slip through his fingers as he stared seaward into the mist.

  He was faced with a decision. Secretary of the Navy Mallory had telegraphed from Montgomery to say he was sending two members of the Committee on Naval Affairs to call on Cooper. They would arrive in the morning. He knew what they wanted.

  His warehouse. His yard. His ships.

  He thought their new government misguided, its cause tragic. Why, then, did he agonize for even one instant over how he would answer the visitors? He knew the answer to that, too.

  He agonized because loyalty to his state was tugging at him like an ocean tide, tugging with a power he had never thought possible. He hated that, but he was unable to stop it.

  He rose and tramped back toward the shot furnace. His stomach growled. He recalled he hadn’t eaten since morning, when he had wolfed a slice of Judith’s fine dark bread. He was uninterested in eating, uninterested in anything except the decision that had him stretched on an emotional rack. What should he do?

  No, that wasn’t precisely the question. Any man who professed to be sane should get out of the South while there was still time. He must rephrase it. What would he do?

  He had only until morning to decide.

  “Rex, what were you whispering about?” Ashton had been passing the pantry and had overheard the boy and the senior house man, Homer, conversing in a furtive, excited way.

  The boy cringed away from his mistress. “Wasn’t whisperin’ about nothin’, Miz Huntoon.”

  “Damn your nigger hide, I heard you. I distinctly heard the word Linkum.”

  Rex gulped. “Linkum? No, ma’am, I swear I never—”

  The pressure of Homer’s dark brown hand on his arm stopped him in mid-sentence. Homer, in his forties and stooped from years of toil, gazed at the boy with resigned eyes. “Won’t do no good to lie. Go harder with both of us if you keep on. Better just to swallow the medicine.”

  He turned to Ashton, signifying his readiness to do what he had recommended to the youngster. But Rex was rebellious.

  “No, Homer, I won’t—”

  Homer’s crushing grip on his wrist made him cry out. Ashton’s breathing grew loud and raspy as she said, “Take down your breeches, both of you.”

  Her hickory rod lay in its accustomed place in the kitchen. The cook and two house girls exchanged glances of alarm as the mistress rushed in, snatched the rod from the high shelf, and hurried out again.

  Ashton felt compelled to nip this fascination with Lincoln before it grew to dangerous proportions. All over Charleston—all over the state, in fact—the slaves were stirring, whispering that one word—Linkum. Some who could read understood him to be the North’s new ruler. Few of the rest knew much of anything about him, beyond the fact that he was a Black Republican. But their masters hated Black Republicans so violently that Linkum clearly had to be the Negro’s friend.

  In the pantry, Homer and Rex had dropped their trousers and faced the wall. Ashton ordered them to pull down their torn underdrawers as well. They were reluctant, but they obeyed. At the sight of the boy’s sleek, muscled flanks, Ashton felt a little internal spasm.

  “Five apiece,” she said. “And if I ever again hear either of you utter the name of that rascally ape, you’ll get ten—or more. Who will take the punishment first?”

  Homer, calmly: “I will, ma’am.”

  Ashton’s breasts felt tight within her dress. She was breathing fast. She saw Rex cast a swift, fearful look over his shoulder. “No, I think not,” she murmured, and swung the rod.

  The whack was loud as a shot in the pantry. Rex hadn’t braced his palms on the wall firmly enough. His chin shot forward, and he got quite a bang. He yelped, then threw another look backward. A wild, resentful look; murderous, almost.

  “Keep your eyes on the wall, nigger,” Ashton said. She struck him with all the force she could muster.

  Homer clenched his right hand, leaned his head forward, and closed his eyes.

  Afterward, she felt as if she had passed through a torrential storm into more tranquil air. She retired to her room and there lay dozing pleasurably on a chaise. Her limbs had a languorous heaviness.

  In her imagination she reexperienced the punishment. At first she pictured it exactly as it had happened, feeling many of the accompanying sensations. Then she varied the images; it was no longer a black boy and a black man she whipped, but a cringing, whining Billy Hazard.

  She and Forbes LaMotte were frustrated because Billy was bottled up at Sumter, never allowed to come into the city. But with General Beauregard due to arrive at any moment, there might be a change. The earlier attempt to have Billy mauled and injured had been foolish, she realized now. Of course she would prefer to squash Billy personally but she and Forbes would be content if he died in the fort.

  Unconsciously, her hands slipped down below her waist. Sweat stippled her upper lip and forehead. She shut her eyes and watched the screen of her imagination display a new picture: Billy amid fire and crumbling stone. The South Carolina batteries blew Sumter to pieces around him. Slowly he sank from sight. Breathing hard, she pressed herself.

  Let it come, she thought. O Lord, let it come soon.

  She moaned softly. A sudden movement of her body jerked the chaise two inches to one side.

  The Georgian toppled over. Forbes LaMotte sidestepped to permit his victim to fall past his legs. The man landed face down in the sand of the alley. Overhead, thunder drummed in the dark clouds of a
March afternoon.

  Forbes flexed his bruised right hand, then adjusted his cravat. Behind him stood a slender, sallow young man wearing elegant clothes. He had let Forbes do most of the fighting.

  Using his elbows, the Georgian attempted to rise. Forbes had knocked out three of his teeth. Blood and saliva coated his lips and chin. Gently Forbes lowered the sole of his shoe onto the man’s head, then pushed. The man’s face buried in the sand again.

  Forbes reached inside his coat for a slim silver flask. He shook it. Half full. He uncorked it, put his head back, and gulped the rest. He tucked the flask into a roomy side pocket and glowered at the fourth man in the alley—another well-dressed Georgian who hunched against the wall of a shed, obviously frightened. The man had watched while Forbes kicked and pounded his companion into unconsciousness.

  “Now, sir,” Forbes said in a slurred voice. “Shall we resume the discussion that necessitated this little disciplinary action? Let’s see. When Mr. Smith and I ran into you and your fellow visitor on the Battery, you were loudly criticizing those of us who reside in Charleston. You said we presumed to speak for all the South.”

  The sallow young man, Preston Smith, stepped forward. “Presumed arrogantly. Those were his exact words.”

  Forbes blinked. “I remember.”

  Preston Smith’s malicious eyes flicked to the terrified Georgian. Preston enjoyed a good muss, especially when others did the fighting. He hoped he could keep this one going.

  “He also said we act as if being born in South Carolina confers a patent of nobility.”

  “Patent of nobility,” Forbes repeated with a bleary nod. “That was the remark that riled me the worst.” With the toe of his boot he nudged the fallen man. “I should say we proved there’s something to it. You two gentlemen met your betters today.”

  Preston snickered. “I’m not sure he believes you, old friend.”

  Forbes gave an exaggerated sigh. “Why, no, I don’t believe he does. We shall just have to impress the lesson upon him too.”

  He stepped over the fallen man and moved toward the other Georgian, who would have melted into the shed wall if that had been possible. The man glanced one way, then the other, and, just as Forbes reached for him, bolted.

  At the sight of the man’s flying coattails, Preston burst out laughing. “You’d better not stop till you get to Savannah, you ignorant cracker.”

  “Tell them your friend is missing in action,” Forbes shouted.

  The running Georgian cast one wild look backward, then disappeared. Forbes laughed so hard, tears came to his eyes.

  Preston fastidiously dusted his knees and sleeves with his kerchief. “Damn me, I hate all these tourists,” he declared as Forbes picked up his hat. The friends started down the alley in the other direction. “They think they can come here and say whatever they please.”

  “It’s our duty to teach ’em otherwise. Blasted dry work, though. Join me in another drink?”

  “But Forbes, it’s barely two in the afternoon.”

  Forbes didn’t like the implication of the remark. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Preston withheld his answer. How could he tell his friend that he was imbibing too heavily? Of late, Forbes did almost nothing but celebrate South Carolina’s independence in various barrooms around town. And drinking did little to improve Forbes’s disposition. When he lacked a target such as the two Georgians, he sometimes turned on his friends. Preston saw the warning signals that this might be about to happen again and hastily invented an excuse.

  “Why, it only means I’d be glad to but I can’t—I’m supposed to be at Doll Fancher’s salon at two. Come, let’s find your carriage again. Then I’ll go on.”

  “Don’t need the carriage,” Forbes snarled. “All I want is another drink.”

  The two walked on in silence while the rain clouds muttered and darkened above them. When Preston inadvertently stumbled and bumped his friend, Forbes pushed him away, hard.

  Their route took them from the alley to Gibbes Street, then down Legare to the Battery, where they came upon a company of elderly men drilling with equally ancient muskets.

  The home guard had been visible in Charleston for several weeks. It was an unofficial police force designed to intimidate the slaves and keep them docile in the event all young and able-bodied men were suddenly called to military service. Preston hailed one of the guardsmen, a gray-bearded relative of his, Uncle Nab Smith.

  Forbes felt raindrops on his forehead. The first splashes quickly became a drizzle. The rain hid the dark hulk of Sumter out in the harbor.

  Forbes’s carriage and driver were waiting by the seawall. Preston helped his friend inside. Attempting to negotiate the small step, Forbes fell twice. Once he was seated on the wine-colored plush upholstery, he crooked a finger at Preston.

  “Climb in and I’ll drop you at Doll Fancher’s.”

  “No, thank you, it’s only a block. I’ll be there by the time your boy turns this rig around.”

  Forbes’s smile grew stiff. “Goddamn it, Preston, I said get in and—”

  “I’ll see you in a day or two,” Preston interrupted, knowing better than to linger. In such a mood Forbes had once broken a seaman’s back in a brawl in a waterfront saloon. Although Preston had provoked that particular altercation with several sarcastic remarks, he had been horrified by his friend’s capacity for violence.

  Preston left quickly. Forbes leaned back against the cushions as the rain intensified. He struggled to remember the date. Oh, yes. March third. Tomorrow in Washington that damned ape would be inaugurated.

  “Where you want to go, Mist’ LaMotte?” the driver called.

  “I don’t know. Drive up Meeting and I’ll decide.”

  He was weary and bored. That was why he drank so heavily and started fights with tourists. His occasional assignations with Ashton no longer provided much satisfaction. Various local artillery units, eager to add the prestige of the LaMotte name to their roster, were begging him to accept a commission, but he had no interest in the offers. He hated discipline.

  He was sufficiently lucid to realize that a peculiar simmering rage was loose within him. He knew his acquaintances recognized that fact. Even Preston, a vicious fighter when the odds were safely in his favor, stayed away from him a good part of the time. Clinging to the hand strap of the swaying carriage, Forbes wondered why he felt so angry and why brawling did little to relieve that anger.

  Staring into the rain, he was driven to confront the answer. The one woman he had desired most had rejected him. He had never stopped hating Brett Main for favoring someone else. Paradoxically, he had never stopped wanting her, either.

  He sat up suddenly, releasing the strap. Was the hurrying figure real or a figment of his imagination?

  No, he wasn’t that drunk. He thumped the roof and shouted over the chatter of the rain. “James, pull to the side.” Then he leaned out the window and waved.

  “Brett? Brett, over here!”

  The moment she heard the voice, she recognized it. She turned to see Forbes stumble down from the carriage. He swept off his hat.

  “Please permit me to drive you wherever you’re going. A lady shouldn’t walk in this weather.”

  That was obvious. But when setting out for the home of a seamstress several blocks away, Brett had assumed she could reach her destination before the shower started. Now the shower had become a downpour. She was getting soaked.

  Surely it couldn’t hurt to accept his assistance; he was, after all, a gentleman. Impulsively, she closed her dripping parasol and stepped toward the carriage.

  She sank onto the plush cushions with a grateful sigh. Forbes closed the door behind her, took a seat opposite, and relayed the address of the seamstress to the Negro driver. The carriage lurched forward.

  Forbes settled his hat on his knees. His smile had a sullen, almost angry quality, she realized with a sudden tight feeling in her stomach. His eyes were glassy. She began to regret her decision.
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br />   “Haven’t seen you for an age, Brett. You look fetching, as always.”

  “You look fine yourself, Forbes.” The words came with difficulty.

  He pinched his waistcoat between thumb and forefinger. “Putting on weight, I’m afraid. I reckon that’s what comes of spending so many hours in barrooms. Don’t have much else to do. Nor much to think of besides you.”

  “Really, Forbes”—her laugh was uncomfortable, nervous—“we settled that a long time ago.”

  She glanced out the window on her side. They had gone only a block; the carriage was moving slowly. Good. She’d jump out if he grew boorish.

  He watched her silently for a few seconds, his odd, sly smile heightening her tension. Abruptly, he dropped his hat on the cushion and heaved himself over next to her. The carriage springs creaked. His sudden movement somehow transmuted her fright to determination.

  “I thought you were being courteous when you made your offer. Don’t disillusion me.”

  “I can’t be courteous. I care for you too damn much.” He took hold of her wrist. “Brett—”

  “Stop it,” she said, not in a prudish way, but firmly.

  “Afraid I can’t do that, sweet.” His thumb began to stroke back and forth over the inside of her wrist, just above the ruching on her muslin glove. “I can’t keep you out of my mind five minutes, seems like. I would think you’d favor a man who cares for you that deeply.”

  With her left hand she reached for the handle of the door. “I have to get out.”

  He seized her shoulders, flinging her back against the wine-colored cushions. “Hell you do,” he growled as he brought his mouth down on hers, hurting her.

  Through his parted lips poured the smell of his breath, rancid as the fumes from a distillery. His right hand dropped to her bodice. Pinning her with his left side, he mauled her breast and breathed against her chin and throat.

  “Jesus, I love you, Brett. Always have—”

  “Let go of me!”

  “No, damn it.” He twisted onto his left hip, flung his right knee over her to pin her to the seat. The pressure of his fingers grew rougher. Through layers of cloth he hurt her nipple. Although she was terrified, she started to work her left hand out of the muslin glove.