by John Jakes
Lying there, she stared dazedly up at him for a time that, to her, seemed endless. Then, gasping, she put her hands beneath her, regained her feet, and once more moved on across the foyer.
Justin struck her again. This time the back of her head hit a corner of the fruitwood chest, a sharp, hurting blow. Her outcry was loud. She rose on one knee, desperately striving to move.
A door opened. Two black faces peered from the rear hall as Justin loomed over her. “If you insist on behaving like a stubborn animal, you’ll be treated like one.” He kicked her hard under her left breast.
Madeline recoiled back against the chest again. The chest hit the wall and rattled the saber. The ormolu clock tipped over, rolled off, and shattered. She lay gasping, fighting for breath, while her eyes watered and everything blurred.
Justin swung around and strode across the foyer. “Goddamn you, what are you staring at? Close that door or I’ll flay you.”
The terrified slaves disappeared. Madeline’s vision cleared a little. She fumbled for a grip on the edge of the chest and then, by force of will, dragged herself up.
Justin turned, saw her on her feet, and swore. She heard the staccato drumming of his foot heels behind her as he charged, spewing filthy curses. With an agonizing effort, she snatched the saber from its pegs, whirled, and slashed.
The nicked edge opened his face from his left brow to the midpoint of his jaw. For a second, pink meat showed beneath the separated skin. Then blood began to leak, spilling down his cheek and spattering his silk shirt.
He pressed his hand to the wound. “You fucking whore!” With his other hand outstretched, he lunged toward her.
She flung the saber away and instinctively swayed out of his way. His momentum carried him on. He struck the wall headfirst, like some actor in a low farce, and slowly sank to his knees. He rested his bleeding face on the chest and moaned.
Two other slaves hovered outside, attracted by the noise. Madeline recognized one of them. “Ezekiel, come with me. I need the buggy.” She gestured to the second black. “See to Mr. LaMotte.”
Two minutes later she was whipping the buggy down the lane toward the river road.
“Young. He said young,”
The buggy’s left rear wheel slammed into a deep hole, almost throwing her off the seat. She fought to keep the vehicle from careening into the ditch as it flashed by the Six Oaks. The open air had sharpened her senses and cleared her head somewhat. She had just remembered her husband’s reference to young Mr. Hazard. She took that to mean George’s brother was the intended victim. He must have left the fort in Charleston harbor, but where was he now?
Light-dappled trees streamed by in a blur. Wind beat at her face. What a prize fool she had been to stay with Justin for so long. For months and months, her will to resist had been sapped by a puzzling exhaustion. Before that, it was her misguided sense of honor that had kept her at Resolute.
But there was no honor in the man to whom she had been brokered in marriage, nor in most of his family. Until this afternoon, however, she hadn’t realized how degraded they were.
She had paused at the head of the staircase, looked down, and discovered Forbes receiving a whispered message from the young slave. The boy didn’t live at Resolute, so obviously he had been sent from somewhere else. Sent with a message Forbes was anxious to receive.
Then Justin had strolled into sight with young Smith. She had at first believed she was listening to the planning of some prank. In a few moments the cruel words and facial expressions told her the reference to killing was meant literally.
Now she hoped she might find young Mr. Hazard at Mont Royal. Failing that, she prayed he could be located, warned in time. Orry would know what to do. Oh, God, she should have left Justin and married Orry long ago.
The cooling rush of air continued to invigorate her body and her mind. The pins and shell combs that fastened her hair had all worked loose, and the long, black strands began to trail out behind her. Lather was already showing on the wild-eyed gelding that propelled the buggy at breakneck speed.
She felt an immense, exultant sense of release. She would never go back to Resolute. Never go back to Justin—
And damn the consequences.
63
SHORTLY BEFORE THREE, THE family gathered to wave good-bye to the newly weds. Billy wanted to leave early enough for a leisurely ride to the little woodland way station.
It was a perfect afternoon for a wedding trip, Charles thought as he lit another cigar. Mild March sunshine slanted through the mossy oak trees, and the air was rich with the smell of wet earth. The low-country spring was coming on. Damn if he didn’t feel like riding down to Charleston and finding a girl.
He helped Homer lift and tie trunks and portmanteaus on top of Huntoon’s carriage. During this, Brett and Billy said their farewells to the family members, Ashton standing aside to be last. “Oh, I do wish you both Godspeed and much happiness. A long life, too,” she added. Sunshine flashed in her dark eyes as she hugged her sister.
“Thank you, Ashton,” Billy said. He shook her hand in an awkward way. In fact, Charles thought awkward the perfect word to describe Billy’s behavior with Ashton all afternoon. Well, no wonder; Billy had been infatuated with her for a good long time. In Charles’s opinion, his friend had wound up with the better girl. Ashton had drive and brains, but a mean streak, too.
“Bison”—Billy stepped up to Charles and extended his hand—“take care of yourself especially if things heat up at Sumter.”
“Sure will try.” Their clasp was firm and long. “You keep in touch. ’Course, I know you won’t be able to do it right away. Other things occupy a man who’s just married.”
“I’m sure counting on that.”
They both laughed. Brett had just finished embracing her mother one final time. She wiped away a tear and said teasingly, “That sounds wicked.”
Charles grinned. “You’re right, but we need a smidgen of smut in these festivities. The bridegroom didn’t get a proper bachelor dinner.”
“Lucky to get a proper wedding trip in times like these,” Orry said in his dour way.
Clarissa continued to smile and blink like a child who was bewildered but determined to be pleasant in spite of it. Some of the house servants had slipped outside to join the leave-taking, so there was a crowd applauding and calling encouragement as Billy helped his new wife into the carriage.
He leaned out and waved. So did Brett. Sunshine glowed on her tears. Homer shook the reins over the back of the team. As the carriage pulled away, everyone waved and shouted more farewells. Charles drew his saber and gave the newlyweds a formal salute just for the devil of it.
Peering past the blade in front of his nose, he noticed Ashton dabbing her eyes with a hanky in one hand while she waved with the other. Just as he lowered his sword to sheathe it, he caught one full view of her face—a smug smile, lasting no more than a few seconds and unnoticed by the others, all of them watching the carriage rattling down the lane through slanting rays of light.
Charles’s neck prickled. He stepped back so that a pillar hid him from Ashton. No matter what she had told the newlyweds a moment ago, she surely did not look as if she wished them well. What in the world was going on?
Something odd, for certain. Perhaps he’d get a clue if he kept his eyes open and didn’t drink too much.
He asked Cuffey to bring him a glass of champagne. Then he unfastened the collar of his uniform and sprawled in a rocker in a cool patch of shadow. He rocked slowly, alone and content to be. Sipping and rocking, he finished the champagne before his patience was rewarded. A black boy appeared at the corner of the house, dusty and out of breath. “Homer be here, sir?”
“No, he left with the carriage. He’ll be back presently.”
It took Charles a moment to place the youngster. Rex, that was his name; Ashton’s other servant. Where had he been? His faded blue flannel shirt was dark with sweat, as if he had run a long way.
Avoiding Charl
es’s eyes, the boy hunkered down on the far side of a pillar. Charles distinctly recalled saying a few words to Homer during the eating and drinking after the ceremony. Rex had been nowhere in sight. Puzzling.
Charles raised his head in response to noise and a dust cloud in the lane. The sound of racing hooves and buggy wheels quickly grew louder. He jumped to his feet when he spied the vehicle’s haggard, frightened-looking driver.
“Madeline,” he called, tossing aside his cigar as he ran into the drive. A moment later he seized the bridle of her exhausted horse, then helped her down. He started to release her waist, but she clung to him. “Madeline, you look scared to death. What’s wrong?” She gazed up at the tall young officer, her expression confused. She struggled to collect herself. All at once she noticed Rex sitting tensely against the pillar. Observations began to connect.
“I saw that boy at Resolute just a little while ago. I’m sure of it.” By then Rex had raced down the piazza and out of sight.
The motion of the carriage was soothing, the mood it created euphoric. Shadows of pines and water oaks flickered on the cushions opposite them, projected there by the light falling through roadside groves. Billy held Brett in the curve of his left arm.
“Happy?” he asked.
She sighed. “Blissfully. I never thought we’d reach this moment.”
“I never thought Orry would allow us to reach it.”
“It was your brother who melted him, you know.”
Billy chuckled. “The old grads say that if you get through West Point, the place will influence your life forever—in ways you can’t imagine when you’re a cadet. I finally believe it.”
Brett thought a moment. “How long do you expect you’ll be detained in Washington?”
“No way of telling. It could be days, weeks, or even—”
“Horsemen coming, Lieutenant Hazard.”
Homer’s voice turned Billy toward the open window. The slave didn’t sound alarmed. Yet the mere fact that he had alerted his passengers suggested something unusual about the riders. Billy could hear them off the left rear quarter of the carriage. The hoofs thudded on woodland earth. They were approaching through the trees. Peculiar.
“Who is it?” Brett asked.
Billy leaned out the window. Dust clouds speared with sunlight spread behind the carriage. Two dim figures, centaurlike, loomed in that dust, but he could discern no details until the horses stretched into a gallop. Out of the dust came the riders. Billy’s hand clenched on the sill of the window.
“An old friend of yours. That LaMotte fellow.”
Even then Brett acted more puzzled than worried. Forbes spurred ahead. His companion, a skinny fellow, finely dressed and about his own age, was close behind. Brett leaned from the other window.
“Why, that’s old Preston Smith. What in the world are the two of them doing on this twopenny road?”
Billy had a suspicion they weren’t riding for the sport of it. And they weren’t out here in search of company; the carriage hadn’t passed a human habitation for several miles. A rider appeared on either side of the carriage.
“Homer, pull up,” Forbes yelled. He had a big smile on his face, but it struck Billy as false. Forbes gestured in a commanding way. “I said pull up!”
Looking worried, the driver tugged on the reins and shifted his foot to the brake lever. The carriage swayed as it stopped. All around it dust rose slowly, like a curtain. The branches of overhanging trees reached down to brush the luggage lashed on top. At this point the road narrowed to little more than parallel dirt tracks with a high crown of weeds between.
Preston Smith coughed, then put away the kerchief he had been holding to nose and mouth. Forbes rode around the back of the coach to Billy’s side. He kicked his left leg up onto his saddle and rested his elbow on the inside of his knee. Brett leaned across her husband.
“It’s quite a surprise to see you way out here, Forbes.”
Dust lay all over Forbes’s hair, lightening it several shades. He appeared relaxed and friendly. Yet Billy distrusted that impression; there was an odd glint in his eyes. Billy thought of his service revolver. It was packed away up on top. Damnation.
“Had to pay my respects,” Forbes replied. “You know my friend Preston Smith, I believe.”
With a cool nod, Brett said, “Yes, we’ve met.”
“No, sir,” Forbes went on. “I couldn’t let the bride and bridegroom leave without offering a word of congratulations.” His smile glowed. “I know you’ll forgive me if I don’t say the best man won.”
Below the window, out of his line of sight, Brett clutched her husband’s knee. Billy’s heart beat faster. He voiced the thought that had occurred to both of them.
“LaMotte, how did you know we were married?”
Smith patted his skittish horse. “Oh, we just heard it somewhere. I don’t believe I’ve had the honor, sir. You are Lieutenant Hazard?”
His tone said meeting Billy was anything but an honor. Billy stared him down. “That’s right.”
“Preston Smith. Your servant.”
Smith’s smile was contemptuous. All at once Billy didn’t believe this encounter had happened by accident. He glimpsed the jaws of a trap.
Homer cleared his throat. “We’d best not tarry or we’ll miss the train, Lieutenant.”
Forbes looked at the black man. “Bound for the passenger stop, are you?”
Homer didn’t blink. “Yes, sir, and I believe we’ll mosey along.”
“Nigger, you aren’t going anywhere till I give you leave.”
Angry, Billy said, “Drive on, Homer.” From the corner of his eye he saw Smith lean backward, reach down to a saddlebag, and bring up a huge brass-chased flintlock dueling pistol. It was swiftly, almost effortlessly, done. Smith smiled as he pointed the gun at Homer.
“You touch those reins and there’ll be nigger blood all over this road.”
“We don’t mean to be quarrelsome,” Forbes said, his grin bigger than ever. “But we rode a piece to pay our respects, and we mean to do it. Now, Mr. Yankee Soldier, you climb down from that coach and out from behind your wife’s skirts so I can congratulate you proper.”
Brett’s hand tightened again. “Billy, don’t.”
But anger was running high in him. He pushed her hand away, kicked the door open, and stepped to the ground.
Forbes sighed. “No, sir, I just can’t say the best man won. Although it does appear you’ll be on top for a while, if you catch my meaning.”
Billy reddened. Smith laughed, a kind of whinnying. As a great snowy egret went sailing over the tops of the pines, Billy took a step toward Forbes’s horse.
“Watch what you say in front of my wife.”
Forbes and his friend exchanged quick, pleased looks. “Why, Mr. Hazard, that sounds suspiciously like a threat. I consider a threat to be a personal insult. Or did I perchance misinterpret you?”
“Billy, come on,” Brett called. “Don’t waste your time on these bloody-minded fools.”
Forbes turned his smile on her. “You know, sweet, I still confess a fondness for you—even though that tongue of yours sometimes transforms you into a first-class fishwife. Bet you even hump like one.”
“LaMotte, you son of a bitch, get off that horse!”
Tossing his head and laughing, Forbes maneuvered his mount out of the path of Billy’s lunge. Then he slid to the ground, smoothed his palms over the hair at his temples, and strolled forward.
“I don’t believe I misinterpreted that remark, sir. You insulted me.”
With a grave nod, Smith said, “He surely did.”
Forbes stood gazing down at Billy, who was almost a full head shorter. “I ask for satisfaction, sir.”
Homer watched in consternation as Brett leaped from the carriage. “Walk away from him, Billy. Don’t you see he came here to bait you? I don’t know how he found out we were leaving, but don’t play his game.”
Eyes warily fixed on his adversary, Billy responded with
a small shake of his head. “Stay out of this, Brett. LaMotte—”
“I said,” Forbes interrupted, “I demand satisfaction.” His hand swept up, then whipsawed across Billy’s face. The open-palm slap resounded loudly. “Right here and right now,” Forbes finished, his charming smile settling in place again.
“Damn you,” Brett burst out. “I knew you were jealous, but I didn’t know it had driven you crazy. How long have you been planning this?”
“A long time, I won’t deny that. But it’s the fairest and most honorable way for me to settle my differences with Mr. Hazard. Preston is carrying a spare pistol in his saddlebag. He’ll act as my second. For yours”—his glance jumped from Billy to the carriage—“reckon you’ll have to serve, Homer. I’d say it’s fitting for a Yankee to have a nigger second.”
Brett’s voice was cracking from strain. “You mustn’t do this, Billy.”
“Please be quiet,” he cut in. He took her shoulders, then led her around the coach to the other side. Bending close, he whispered, “I’ve got to fight him. Can’t you see he came chasing after us so he could kill me? If we try to leave, he’ll find some pretext to shoot me outright. This way—”
He swallowed. Perspiration had gathered on his chin. A drop fell suddenly, darkening his lapel like a bloodstain.
“At least I have a chance.”
She shook her head, gently at first, then harder. Tears welled in her eyes. Billy squeezed her arm and walked back to the far side of the carriage. She heard him say:
“All right, LaMotte. Let’s use that field over there, by the marsh.”
“Your servant, sir,” Forbes said, and bowed.
Billy stripped off his coat, cravat, and waistcoat. He flung them over the spines of a yucca plant growing near the drooping fronds of a wild palm. Homer approached, but Billy waved him back.
“Stay with Brett. I can do this by myself.”
“Why, certainly, it’s simple enough,” Smith agreed as he summoned the duelists into the sunshine at the center of an open stretch of bermuda grass that was seething softly in the wind.
