North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

“If that be so, Mr. Huntoon, the Confederacy won’t last a year. You may have the doctrine of states’ rights, pristine and scrupulously enforced, or you may have a new country. You can’t have both without some accommodation. So take your choice.”

  Giddy with anger, Huntoon blurted, “My choice is not to be a party to autocratic thinking, Mr. President. Further—”

  “If you will excuse me.” Spots of color showed in the President’s cheeks as he pivoted and left. Toombs followed.

  Huntoon fumed. If the President resented disagreement about fundamental principles, the devil with him. The man was very definitely the wrong sort. He gave mere lip service to the ideals of Calhoun and the other great statesmen who had endured the calumnies of the North for a generation and exhausted themselves fighting for man’s right to own what property he pleased. Huntoon was glad he had told Davis—

  “You blundering, simple-minded—”

  “Ashton!”

  “I can’t believe what I overheard. You should have flattered him, and you spouted political cant.”

  Scarlet, he seized her wrist, crushing the velvet band under sweaty fingers. “People claim he acts like a dictator. I wanted to confirm that. I did. I expressed my strong convictions about—”

  By then she was leaning close, smiling her warmest smile, flooding him with the sweet odor of her breath. “Shit on your strong convictions. Instead of introducing me so I could help you—ease you through a prickly situation—you blathered and argued, and sounded the knell for your already insignificant career.”

  She exploded into swift motion, bumping guests and drawing stares as she stormed toward the refreshments, tears in her eyes. Idiot. She clutched a chilled punch cup between her hands; she had removed her gloves because sweat had soaked them. The idiot. He’s wrecked everything.

  Anger quickly gave way to a feeling of depression. A fine social opportunity had been ruined; large groups of people were already starting to leave. As she sipped punch, she wanted to sink into the floor and die. She had come to Richmond in search of the power she had always craved, and in a few sentences he had guaranteed he would never get it for her.

  Very well—she would find someone else. Someone to help her rise. An intellectual ally, or, better, a man on whom she could use certain skills she knew she possessed. A man more intelligent and tactful than James; more dedicated to success and adept at achieving it—

  Thus, in a minute or less, in Parlor 83 of the Spotswood, Ashton made up her mind. Huntoon had never been much of a husband; her secret box of special souvenirs validated that. Henceforth, he’d be a husband in name only. Perhaps he wouldn’t even be that if she could find the proper replacement.

  She lifted the empty cup. “Might I have regular champagne?” Gaily smiling again, she handed it to the Negro behind the table. “I can’t abide punch that’s gone flat.”

  The tall man in the blue velvet frock coat extinguished his long cigar in a sand urn. Having asked a few questions to be certain about relationships, he strolled through the thinning crowd toward his target—the perspiring, bespectacled oaf who had just had a ferocious argument with his wife. Earlier, the tall man had noticed the wife enter the room, and within his tight fawn trousers his penis had hardened. Few women did that to him so quickly.

  The tall man was thirty-five or so, with a muscular frame and delicate hands. He moved gracefully and wore his clothes well; yet a certain coarseness communicated itself, due in part to the presence of childhood pox scars. Smooth, slightly pomaded hair, evenly mixed gray and dark brown, hung to his collar in the Davis fashion. He glided up beside Huntoon. Confused and upset, the lawyer stood polishing and polishing his glasses with a damp handkerchief.

  “Good evening, Mr. Huntoon.”

  The resonant voice startled Huntoon; the man had slipped up behind him. “Good evening. You have the advantage of me—”

  “Quite right. You were pointed out to me. Your family’s an old and famous one down in our part of the world, I might say.”

  What was the fellow up to, Huntoon wondered. Promoting some investment scheme, perhaps? He was out of luck there—Ashton controlled the only money they had, the forty thousand dollars that had been her marriage dower.

  “Are you a South Carolinian, Mr.—?”

  “Powell. Lamar Hugh Augustus Powell. Lamar to friends. No, sir, I’m not from your state, but close by. My mother’s people are from Georgia. The family’s heavily into cotton, near Valdosta. My father was English. Took my mother as a bride to Nassau, where I was raised, and he practiced law until he died some years ago.”

  “The Bahamas. That explains it.” Huntoon’s attempt to smile and be ingratiating struck Powell as insipid and funny. This sod would present no problem. But where—?

  Ah. Without turning, Powell detected a blur of color moving near. “Explains what, sir?”

  “Your speech. I thought I heard Charleston in it—yet not quite.” For a moment or two,” Huntoon could think of nothing else to say. In desperation, he exclaimed, “Grand party—”

  “I didn’t introduce myself for the purpose of discussing the party.” Stung, Huntoon’s grin grew sickly. “To be candid, I am organizing a small group to finance a confidential venture which could prove incredibly lucrative.”

  Huntoon blinked. “You’re talking about an investment—?”

  “A maritime investment. This damned blockade creates fantastic opportunities for men with the will and wherewithal to seize them.”

  He bent closer.

  After all the disheartening turns the evening had taken, Ashton at last found some pleasure in the sight of the attractive stranger speaking with her husband. How lamentable James looked beside him. Was the gentleman as prosperous as appearances suggested? As virile?

  She hurried toward them. Having punished her, James was now prepared to be polite.

  “My dear, may I present Mr. Lamar Powell of Valdosta and the Bahamas? Mr. Powell, my wife, Ashton.”

  With that introduction, he made one of the worst mistakes of his life.

  20

  CHARLES TIED AMBROSE PELL’S bay to the top fence rail. Light rain was falling on him, the bald farmer, and the disappointing horse he had ridden twelve miles to see. The distant Blue Ridge was lost in mist as dreary as his spirits.

  “A gray?” Charles said. “Only the musicians ride grays.”

  “’Spect that’s why I still got him,” the farmer replied. “Sold off all my others quick—though if you want to know, I mislike doin’ business with you buttermilk cavalry boys. Couple of ’em rode through here last week with papers saying they was Commissary Department men.”

  “How many chickens did they steal from you?”

  “Oh, you know them boys?”

  “Not personally, but I know how some of them operate.” The thievery, officially called “foraging,” contributed to the bad reputation the cavalry had already acquired, as did the widespread belief that all mounted soldiers would use their horses to ride away from a battle. There was an even chance that the men who had visited the farmer had presented papers they themselves had forged.

  “About the horse—”

  “Already told you the price.”

  “It’s too high. But I’ll pay it if the gray’s any good.”

  Charles doubted it. The two-year-old gelding was a plain, undistinguished animal; small—about fourteen hands high—and certainly no more than a thousand pounds. He had the shoulders and long, sloping pasterns of a good racer. But you didn’t see many gray saddle horses. What was wrong with this one?

  “They don’t let you boys ride ’less you can find your own remount, ain’t that it?” the farmer asked.

  “Yes. I’ve been minus a horse and hunting a replacement for two weeks. I’m temporarily in Company Q, as the saying goes.”

  “They give you anything for providin’ your own mount?”

  “Forty cents a day, food, shoes, and the services of a farrier, if you can find one sober.” It was a stupid policy, no do
ubt invented by some government clerk who had ridden nothing friskier than his childhood hobby-horse. The more Charles saw of army politics, camp life, the new recruits, the less easy it became to decide whether the Confederate Army was comic or tragic. Some of both, probably.

  “How’d your other horse die?”

  Nosy old grouch, wasn’t he? “Distemper.” Dasher had succumbed eleven days after Charles first noticed the symptoms. To this hour he could see the bay lying sad-eyed in the isolation the disease required. He had kept her covered with every blanket he could buy or borrow, and while they hid all the ugly abscesses, they couldn’t hide her swollen legs or mask the stench of the creamy pus flowing from the lesions. He should have shot her, but he couldn’t do it. He let her die and wept with sorrow and relief, off by himself, afterward.

  “Um,” the farmer said with a shiver. “Strangles is a dirty end for a good animal.”

  “Just as soon not talk about it.” Charles disliked the farmer, and the man had taken a dislike to him. He wanted to conclude the business. “Why haven’t you sold the gray? Cost too much?”

  “Nah, the other reason. Like you say—only the band boys want grays. I heard you boys try to make the colors match so’s one bunch can be told from another.”

  “That’s the theory. It won’t last long.” His search was proof. “Look, you don’t find many horses for sale in this part of Virginia. So what’s wrong with him? He’s broken, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, sure, my cousin broke him good. That’s where I got him—off my cousin. I’ll be straight with you, soldier—”

  “Captain.”

  The farmer didn’t like that. “He’s a good, fast little thing, but something about him doesn’t please. Two other boys like you looked him over and found him kind of plain and, well, disagreeable. Maybe it’s the Florida blood.”

  Instantly, Charles perked up. “Is he part Chickasaw?”

  “Ain’t got nothing to prove it, but my cousin said so.”

  Then the gray might be a find. The best Carolina racers combined the strains of the English thoroughbred and the Spanish pony from Florida. Charles realized he should have suspected Chickasaw blood when he saw the gray frisking in the pasture as he rode up.

  “Is he hard to ride?”

  “Some have found him so, yessir.” The farmer was growing tired of the questions. His belligerence told Charles to hurry up and decide; he didn’t care which way.

  “Has he got a name?”

  “Cousin called him Sport.”

  “That could mean lively, or it could mean an animal too different to be any good.”

  “I didn’t ask about that” The farmer leaned over and blew a gob of saliva into the weeds. “You want him or not?”

  “Put that headstall on him and bring him over here,” Charles replied, unfastening his spurs. The farmer went into the pasture, and Charles observed that Sport twice tried to bite his owner while the headstall was being placed. But the gray followed tractably when the man led him to the fence.

  Charles walked to Ambrose Pell’s bay and pulled his shotgun from the hide sheath he had cut and stitched together. He checked the gun quickly. Alarmed, the farmer said, “What the hell you fixin’ to do?”

  “Ride him a ways.”

  “No saddle? No blanket? Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “Texas.” Tired of the old man, Charles gave him an evil grin. “When I took time off from killing Comanches.”

  “Killing—? I see. All right. But that shotgun—”

  “If he can’t handle the noise, he’s no good to me. Bring him closer to the fence.”

  He barked it like an order to his men; the farmer instantly became less troublesome. Charles climbed to the top of the fence, slid over, and dropped down on the gelding gently as he could. He wrapped the rope around his right hand, already feeling the gray’s skittish resistance. He raised the shotgun and fired both barrels. The sound went rolling away toward the hidden mountains. The gray didn’t buck, but he ran—straight toward the fence at the far side of the pasture.

  Charles gulped and felt his hat blow off. Raindrops splashed his face. All right, he thought, show me whether your name signifies good or bad.

  The fence rushed at him. If he won’t jump, I could break my damn neck. With his light mane standing out above the fine long line of his neck, Sport cleared the fence in a clean, soaring leap, never touching the top rail.

  Charles laughed and gave Sport his head. The gray took him on one of the wildest gallops he had ever experienced. Over weedy ground. Through a grove where low limbs loomed, and he ducked repeatedly. Up a steep little hill and down to a cold creek; the water driven up by their crossing would finish the soaking the rain had begun. It occurred to Charles that he wasn’t testing the gray; the gray was testing him.

  Long hair flying, he laughed again. In this wrong-colored, unhandsome little animal, he just might have discovered a remarkable war horse.

  “I’ll take him,” he said when he returned to the fence by the road. He reached for a wad of bills. “You said a hundred—”

  “While you was frolicking with him, I decided I can’t let him go for less than a hundred and fifty.”

  “The price you quoted was a hundred, and that’s all you get.” Charles fingered the shotgun. “I wouldn’t argue—you know us boys from the buttermilk cavalry. Thieves and killers.”

  He grinned again. The deal was concluded without further negotiation.

  “Charlie, you were flummoxed,” Ambrose declared five minutes after Charles got back to camp with the gray. “Any fool can see that horse has nothing to recommend it.”

  “Appearances don’t always tell the tale, Ambrose.” He ran a hand down Sport’s slightly arched nose. The gelding nuzzled in a determined way. “Besides, I think he likes me.”

  “He’s the wrong color. Everyone will take you for a damn cornet player instead of a gentleman.”

  “I’m not a gentleman. I quit trying to be one when I was seven. Thanks for the loan of your horse. I’ve got to feed and water this one.”

  “Let my nigger do it for you.”

  “Toby’s your manservant, not mine. Besides, ever since I attended the Academy, I’ve had this peculiar idea that a trooper should care for his own mount. It is his second self, as the saying goes.”

  “I detect disapproval,” Ambrose grumbled. “What’s wrong with bringing a slave to camp?”

  “Nothing—until the fighting starts. No one will do that for you.”

  Ambrose found the remark irksome. He stayed silent for some seconds, then muttered, “By the way, Hampton wants to see you.”

  Charles frowned. “About what?”

  “Don’t know. The colonel wouldn’t confide in me. Maybe I’m not professional enough to suit him. Hell, I don’t deny it. I only signed up because I love to ride and I hate Yankees—and I don’t want a bundle of petticoats left on my doorstep some night to tell everybody I’m a shirker. I thought I’d earn the respect of my friends by taking a legion commission, and instead I’ve lost it.” He sighed. “Remember we’re dining with old princey-prince this evening?”

  “Thanks for reminding me. I forgot.”

  “Tell Hampton not to keep you, because his highness expects us to be prompt.”

  Charles smiled as he led Sport away. “That’s right, in this army it’s dinner parties before duty. I’ll be sure to remind the colonel of that.”

  Though Camp Hampton was the bivouac of an elite regiment, it was still succumbing to familiar afflictions, Charles noticed on his way to regimental headquarters forty minutes later. He saw human waste left on the ground instead of in the sinks dug for the purpose. The smell was worse because the late afternoon was windless.

  He saw a pair of privates stumbling-drunk from the poisonous busthead sold by the inevitable sutler in the inevitable tent. He saw three gaudily dressed ladies who were definitely not officers’ wives or laundresses. Charles hadn’t slept with a woman in months, and he could tell it. Still, he
wasn’t ready to take up with beauties like these; not with so many complaints of clap in the encampment.

  In contrast to the busy sutler, the gray-bearded colporteur had no customers at all and made a forlorn sight seated against the wheel of his wagon reading some of his own merchandise. One of the Bibles he sold? No, it was a tract, Charles observed; possibly A Mother’s Parting Words to Her Soldier Boy, eight pages of cautionary moralizing in the form of a letter. It was a hot seller throughout the army, though most of the better-educated legionnaires jeered at it.

  He passed two young gentlemen whose salutes were so brief as to border on insulting. Before Charles finished returning the salutes, the men were once again arguing over the price to pay a substitute when it was inconvenient to stand guard. Twenty-five cents per tour was the customary rate.

  The next unpleasantness he came upon was a large pavilion with its sides raised because of the sweltering heat and dampness after the rain. Inside lay those already felled by the shotless war. Sickness was everywhere; bad water made men’s bowels run and constrict with ghastly pain; balls of opium paste did little to alleviate the suffering. Surviving dysentery in Texas had not kept Charles from spending another week with it in Virginia. Now there was a new epidemic in the army: measles.

  He hated to wish for combat but, as he entered the headquarters area, he couldn’t deny he was sick of camp life. Mightn’t be long before he got his wish, at that. Some old political hack, General Patterson, had pushed Joe Johnston and his men out of Harpers Ferry, and word was circulating that McDowell would shortly move at least thirty thousand men to the strategic rail junction of Manassas Gap.

  Barker, the regimental adjutant, was finishing some business with the colonel, so Charles had to wait. He scratched suddenly. God, he had them, all right.

  About six, the captain came out and Charles reported to the colonel he greatly admired—Wade Hampton of the Congaree: a millionaire, a good leader, and a fine cavalryman in spite of his age. “Be at ease, Captain,” Hampton said after the formalities. “Sit if you like.”

  Charles took the stool in front of Hampton’s neat field desk, one corner of which was reserved for a small velvet box with its lid raised. In the box stood an easeled frame, filigreed silver, containing a miniature of Hampton’s second wife, Mary.