North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  The situation in Britain vis-à-vis the Confederacy was complex, not to say confused. Nearly as confused, Cooper thought, as the foreign policy of the Davis government. The South needed war and consumer goods from abroad. She could buy those with her cotton, but Mr. Davis had chosen to withhold that from the foreign market because textile mills in Europe and Britain were suffering a severe shortage of their raw material. Thus Davis hoped to force diplomatic recognition of the new nation. All he’d gotten so far was half a pie; while the Cooper Mains crossed the ocean, Britain acknowledged the Confederate States as belligerents in a war with the North.

  If full recognition depended on the skills of the three commissioners dispatched to Europe by Secretary of State Toombs, Cooper doubted it would ever be achieved. Rost and Mann were barely adequate mediocrities, while the third commissioner, Yancey, was one of the original fire-eaters—a man so extreme the Confederate government didn’t want him. His posting to Britain amounted to exile. An ill-tempered boor was hardly the person to deal with Lord Russell, the foreign minister.

  Further, the ambassador from Washington, Mr. Charles Francis Adams, descendant of presidents, had a reputation as a shrewd, aggressive diplomat. He kept pressure on the Queen’s government to hold back recognition of the Confederacy. And Cooper had been warned that Adams and his consuls maintained a spy network to prevent the very kind of illegal activity that brought him to Liverpool.

  “Lime Street. Lime Street Station.”

  The trainman moved on to call at the next compartment. Above the stone-sided cut through which the train chugged, Cooper glimpsed the chimneys of steeply roofed row houses stained with dirt, yet reassuring in their solidity. Cooper loved Britain and the British people. Any nation that could produce a Shakespeare and a Brunel—and a Drake and a Nelson—deserved immortality. Duty in Liverpool might have its dangers, but he felt exhilarated as the train jerked and finally stopped in the roofed shed adjoining Lime Street.

  “Judith, children, follow me.” First out of the compartment, he waved down a porter. While the luggage was being unloaded, a man with more hair on his upper lip and cheeks than on his round head wove through the press of passengers, porters, and hawkers to reach the new arrivals. The man had an aristocratic air about him and was well but not extravagantly dressed.

  “Mr. Main?” The man addressed him softly, even though loud voices and escaping steam effectively barred eavesdropping.

  “Captain Bulloch?”

  James D. Bulloch of Georgia and the Confederate Navy tipped his hat. “Mrs. Main—children. The warmest of welcomes to Liverpool. I trust the journey wasn’t too taxing?”

  “The children enjoyed the scenery once the sun came up,” Judith answered, with a smile.

  “I spent most of the time studying the drawings you sent to Islington,” Cooper added. They had arrived with a man pretending to be making a delivery of wallpaper samples.

  “Good—fine. You-all come right along, then. I have a hack waiting to whisk us over to Mrs. Donley’s in Oxford Street. Temporary quarters only—I know you’ll want something larger and more suitable.”

  Turning slightly, he directed the remark to Judith. As Bulloch smiled at her, Cooper noticed his eyes. They moved constantly, scanning faces, compartment windows, trash-strewn corners of the great arched shed. This was no lark.

  “You might like the Crosby area,” Bulloch continued as he led the family and the porter outside. He flourished his gold-knobbed cane to discourage three sad-faced urchins with trays of old, damaged fruit. The Mains piled into the hack while Bulloch remained on the curb, studying the crowds. Finally he hopped in, rapped the ceiling with his cane, and they were off.

  “There’s plenty to be done here, Main, but I don’t want to rush you. I know you need to settle in—”

  Cooper shook his head. “The waiting in London was worse than overwork. I’m eager to get started.”

  “Good for you. The first man you’ll meet is Prioleau. He runs Fraser, Trenholm, on Rumford Place. I also want to introduce you to John Laird and his brother. Got to be careful about that meeting, though. Mrs. Main, you understand the problems we contend with here, don’t you?”

  “I think so, Captain. The neutrality laws don’t permit war vessels to be built and armed in British yards if the vessels will go into the service of any power with whom Britain is at peace.”

  “By Jove, that’s it exactly. Clever wife you have, old chap.” Cooper smiled; Bulloch was adapting rapidly. He continued energetically. “The laws cut both ways, of course. The Yankees can’t build any warships either—but then, they don’t need to, and we do. The trick is to construct and arm a vessel without detection or government interference. Fortunately, there’s a gap in the laws—one we can sail right through if we have nerve. A solicitor I hired locally pointed it out. I’ll explain it in due course.”

  “Will the local shipbuilders violate the laws on neutrality?” Judith asked him.

  “Britons are also human beings, Mrs. Main. Some of them will if there’s profit in it. Fact is, they’ve more offers of contracts than they can handle. There are gentlemen in town who have nothing to do with our Navy but who still want ships built or refitted.”

  “Ships to run the blockade?” said Cooper.

  “Yes. By the way, have you met the man we work for?”

  “Secretary Mallory? Not yet. Everything’s been done by letter.”

  “Smart fellow, Mallory. Something of a submissionist, though.”

  Cooper’s nature wouldn’t permit deception on such an important point. “So was I, Captain.”

  For the first time, Bulloch frowned. “You mean to say you’d like to see the old Union patched together again?”

  “I said was, Captain. Still, since we’re going to work closely, I must be straightforward—” He put an arm around his wriggling daughter to settle her. The hack swayed. “I detest this war. I especially detest the fools on both sides who caused it. But I made my decision to stay with the South. My personal beliefs won’t interfere with my duties, that I promise.”

  Bulloch cleared his throat. His frown faded. “Can’t ask for better than that.” But he clearly wanted to leave this boggy ground. He complimented the parents on their handsome children, then proudly showed a small, cardboard-framed photograph of his infant nephew Theodore. The boy’s mother, Bulloch’s sister, had married into an old-line New York family named Roosevelt.

  “Expect she has cause to regret it now,” he added. “Ah, here’s Mrs. Donley’s.”

  He turned away from the oval window as the hack stopped. Bulloch got out first to fold the step down. Cooper assisted Judith and the children while the driver began to unload the trunks and portmanteaus lashed to the roof. They had pulled up in front of Number 6 in a row of brick residences attached to one another and all alike. Suddenly, a decrepit figure in a filthy skirt and patched sweater lurched into sight from the far side of the hack.

  Hair that resembled gray broomstraw stuck out from beneath a bandanna. The woman clutched the neck of a smelly rag bag carried over her shoulder and peered at Cooper with an intensity as peculiar as her unlined face.

  “Parnmeguvnor,” she said, bumping him as she hurried by. Bulloch whipped up his cane and with his other hand seized the ragpicker’s hair. The move was so abrupt that Marie-Louise yelped and jumped to her mother’s side. Bulloch yanked; gray hair and bandanna came off, revealing cropped yellow curls.

  “The hair gave you away, Betsy. Tell Dudley not to buy such a cheap wig next time. Now off with you!”

  He waved his cane in a threatening way. The young woman backed up, spitting invective—in English, Cooper supposed, though he couldn’t understand a word. Bulloch stepped forward. The woman picked up her skirts, dashed to the corner, and disappeared.

  “Who the devil was that?” Cooper exclaimed.

  “Betsy Cockburn, a slut, er, woman who hangs out in a pub near Rumford Place. Thought I recognized her. She’s one of Tom Dudley’s spies, I think.”
/>   “Who’s Dudley?”

  “The Yankee consul in Liverpool.”

  “What was that gibberish she spouted at us?” Judith wanted to know.

  “Scouse. The Liverpudlian equivalent of Cockney. I hope none of you understood her.” Another throat clearing indicated his concern for delicate sensibilities.

  “Not a syllable,” Judith assured him. “But I can hardly believe that wretched creature is a spy.”

  “Dudley hires what he can get. Dock scum chiefly. They are not recruited for their intelligence.” Brushing dust from his sleeve, he said to Cooper, “It doesn’t matter that we saw through her ridiculous disguise. Its only purpose was to help her get close enough for a good look at your face. Dudley got wind of your arrival somehow. One of my informants told me so yesterday. But I didn’t anticipate your becoming a marked man quite this soon—”

  The sentence trailed into a disappointed sigh. Then: “Well, it’s a lesson in how things operate in Liverpool. Dudley is not a foe to be taken lightly. That drab’s harmless, but some of his other hirelings are not.”

  Judith cast an anxious look at her husband, whose mouth had grown inexplicably dry. How chilly the summer noonday felt. “Don’t you think we should go inside and see our quarters?” Judah at his side, he walked to the stoop. He was smiling, but he surveyed each end of the block in turn.

  13

  STARKWETHER’S BURIAL TOOK PLACE in Washington that same afternoon, in the rain. The location was a small private cemetery in the suburb of Georgetown, beyond Rock Creek and well away from the place seekers and other political canaille.

  Water dripped from Elkanah Bent’s hat brim and dampened his black-frogged coat of dark blue. He usually enjoyed wearing the coat, with its attached short cloak, adopted in 1851 from a French design; he believed it minimized his fatness and lent him dash. But pleasure was absent this dark, depressing day.

  A canvas pavilion protected the open grave and surrounding lawn. Some fifty mourners had gathered. Bent was too far away to identify many of them—he’d tied his horse a quarter of a mile back and walked to his spot behind a great marble cross—but the few he did recognize testified to his father’s importance. Ben Wade, Ohio’s powerful Republican senator, had come. Scott had sent a senior staff officer, and nigger-loving Chase his pretty daughter. The President’s representative was Lamon, the longhaired, mustachioed White House crony.

  Bent’s mood was one of resentment rather than grief. Even in death, his father prevented closeness. He wanted to stand with the other mourners but didn’t dare.

  Laborers waited at the head and foot of the heavily ornamented coffin, ready to lift and lower it. The minister was speaking, but Bent couldn’t hear him because of the splatter of rain on summer leaves. The cemetery was heavily wooded; dark as a grotto. Dark as he felt.

  Late in the morning, so the papers said, his father had been memorialized at a church service in downtown Washington. Bent couldn’t go to that either. All arrangements had undoubtedly been handled by Dills, the little old lawyer who stood nearest the grave, flanked by three bland, jowly civilians with the look of moneyed men.

  Bent hunched close to the cross, half again as tall as he was. He despised Dills but didn’t want to antagonize him by inadvertently showing himself. It was through Dills that Heyward Starkwether had communicated with his illegitimate son and provided him with money. It was Dills to whom Bent appealed in times of emergency. Never in person after their first interview; only in writing.

  The solemn minister raised his hand. The coffin went down into the earth, and down, on canvas sling straps. Bent had been invited to meet his father twice in his adult life. At each meeting the conversation was inconsequential and awkward, with many lengthy silences. He remembered Starkwether as a handsome, reserved man, obviously intelligent. He had never seen his father smile.

  Rain seemed to get into Bent’s eyes as the coffin disappeared. The mourners prepared to leave. Why hadn’t Starkwether cared enough about him to acknowledge him? Bastardy wasn’t such a great sin in these modern times. Why, then? He hated his father, for whom he cried now, for leaving that and so many other questions unanswered.

  Foremost, who was Bent’s mother? Not Starkwether’s long-dead wife; that much Dills had told him, going on to warn him never to ask a second time. How dare the lawyer treat him that way? How dare Starkwether hide the truth?

  During Bent’s only talk with Dills, the lawyer had purported to explain why a close relationship with Starkwether was impossible. Those who paid Starkwether wanted him to live in perfect rectitude and never by word or deed draw public attention to himself. Bent didn’t believe the smooth story. He suspected Starkwether had a simpler and crueler reason for abandoning him. Starkwether had fathered no legitimate children. He was probably one of those selfish careerists too busy for parenthood.

  Bent inhaled sharply. Dills seemed to be watching the stone cross while he conversed with the three moneyed men. Bent began a retreat, careful to keep the monument between himself and the grave. He failed to see a pedestal supporting a looming granite angel. He stumbled against the pedestal and cried out. He kept himself from falling by catching hold of the wet stone drapery.

  Had anyone heard him? Dills?

  No one came, and the rattle of departing carriages continued. When he got his breath, he lumbered on to the tree where he’d tied his horse. The horse side-stepped when Bent’s full weight settled on him.

  Soon he was safely away, cantering on a muddy road at the edge of the Georgetown College campus, where forlorn pickets stood guard around the tents of the Sixty-ninth New York militia. His loss continued to hurt, though less and less as his rage intensified. Goddamn the man for dying just now. Someone had to intervene to prevent him from being shipped to Kentucky.

  Although Bent had eaten a full breakfast, his desperation drove him back to Willard’s for a huge dinner in the middle of the afternoon. He stuffed a fork laden with mashed potatoes into his mouth, sopped up chicken gravy with a wad of bread, and stuffed that in, too: Eating had been his narcotic since childhood.

  It did little to soothe him today. He kept picturing Starkwether resentfully. He had even refused Bent his own name, insisting the boy take the name of the family with whom he’d been placed for his upbringing.

  The Bents were tired, barely literate people who farmed near the Godforsaken hamlet of Felicity in Clermont County, Ohio. Fulmer Bent had been forty-seven when Starkwether’s son was delivered to him. Bent had been quite small and didn’t remember it. Or maybe he had blotted it from memory; only a very few of the most hurtful scenes from those years remained with him.

  Mrs. Bent, who had numerous relatives across the river in Kentucky, was a peculiar woman with a wall eye. When she wasn’t dragging him to visit her relations, she forced him to listen while she read the Bible aloud or lectured him in a whisper about the filth of the human body, the human mind, and a majority of human actions and desires. In his thirteenth year she caught him with his hand on himself and whipped him with a rope until he screamed and bled all over the bed sheets. No wonder Fulmer Bent spent more hours out of the house than in it. He was a secretive man whose only source of amusement seemed to be the mating activities of his livestock.

  The Felicity years were the darkest of Bent’s entire life, not only because he loathed his foster parents but also because he learned at age fifteen that his real father was alive in Washington and unable to acknowledge him. Before, he had presumed his father to be some dead relative of the Bents who had perhaps disgraced the family; they were evasive whenever the boy asked questions.

  It was Dills who made the long coach and riverboat journey to Ohio to check on Bent’s welfare and tell him the truth, at a time Dills had chosen because he believed the boy capable of receiving and accepting the facts. Dills spoke about Starkwether at length one sunny afternoon on the farm, careful that he and the boy were alone in shade near the well. The lawyer’s phrases were tactful, even gentle, but he never guessed how
deeply they wounded his listener. Ever afterward, no matter how much Starkwether helped with influence or money, there was submerged outrage in Bent’s love for his father.

  In Bent’s sixteenth year, just before Starkwether secured the boy’s appointment to the Military Academy, Fulmer Bent took pigs to market in Cincinnati and died in a shooting incident in a house of ill repute. That same autumn a sweet-voiced young clerk at the Felicity general store had initiated Bent sexually. Bent didn’t have his first woman until two years later.

  Long before Starkwether secured the Academy appointment, however, Elkanah Bent had begun to dream of a military career. The dream had its genesis in a cluttered Cincinnati bookshop to which the boy wandered one day while Fulmer Bent transacted business elsewhere. For five cents he bought a badly torn, water-stained life of Bonaparte. That was the start.

  He saved little bits of the allowance money Dills sent twice a year. He bought, read, and reread lives of Alexander, Caesar, Scipio Africanus. But it was Bony whose heir and American counterpart he came to be in his florid imaginings—

  Become a Bonaparte in Kentucky? He was more likely to become a corpse. The state was contested ground; half of its men had joined the Union, half the Confederacy. Lincoln kept hands off the slaveowners so they wouldn’t foment secession. He absolutely would not go to a place like that.

  Nervous sweat slicking his cheeks, he waved to the waiter. “Bring me another helping of pie.” He gobbled it and leaned back, a drip of the sugary filling hanging from his lower lip like a moist icicle. Swollen with food—aching—he felt better, able to think and plan again. One thing he would never deny about Fulmer Bent’s wife: she was a splendid cook.

  He had attended a country school with a lot of farmers’ sons who teased him and conspired to make him the target of pranks. Once, they had filled his lunch pail with fresh cow dung. He had run home and found his foster mother pulling six of her yeasty, yellow-crusted loaves from the iron stove. He had devoured one and begged for another. From that day, she kept him stuffed. When he pleaded for second and third helpings or treats between meals, she was flattered and always gave in.