by John Jakes
“Please don’t be angry. That isn’t all.”
“What do you mean, it isn’t all? I don’t understand you.”
He gulped. “Well—Miss Madeline, she’ll be leaving soon to join Mr. Orry. Meek isn’t a mean overseer, but he’s a hard one. The people need another steadying hand, another friend like Miss Madeline.”
“And you think I could replace her?”
“You ain’t—aren’t a white woman, but you’re free. It’s the next best thing.”
Why the rush of disappointment, then? She didn’t know. “I’m sorry I misunderstood, and I thank you for your faith in me, but—” She uttered a little cry as he snatched her hand.
“I don’t want you to go, because I like you.”
He spoke so fast, it sounded like one long word. The instant he finished, he shut his mouth and looked ready to die of shame. She could barely hear him when he added, “I apologize.”
“No, don’t. What you said is—” how tongue-tied she felt—“sweet.” Inclining her head, she brushed his cheek with her lips. She had never been so bold. She was as embarrassed as Andy; churning. She pushed against the dock. “It’s chilly. We ought to go.”
“May I walk along?”
“I’d like it if you did.”
The three-quarters of a mile to the cabins was traversed in silence, a silence so strained it hurt. They reached the slave street, the far end washed by lemon lamplight from the overseer’s house Meek had repainted inside and out. Andy said, “G’night, Miss Jane,” in a strangled voice. He veered away toward his own cabin without breaking stride. A last sentence floated behind. “Hope I didn’t make you too mad.”
No, but he had unsettled her. Mightily. She had developed a strong romantic interest in Andy; it had crept over her with stealth. Tonight, while drops of light fell from the jumping fish, she had come square up against it. It was a powerful pull against the magnet of the North.
Lord. After crying at the burial, she had been certain of her next step. Now she was all topsy-turvy and unsure—
“Boss nigger’s the only one good enough for you, huh?”
“What’s that?”
Alarmed by the voice from the dark, she searched and saw a form break from an unlit porch to the left. Cuffey ambled to her, took that admire-me stance of his, and said, “Guess you know who.” With his tongue pressed against the back of his upper teeth, he made a scary little hissing sound. “I was head driver once. That make me good enough to walk you in the moonlight? I know all the ways to pleasure a gal. Been learnin’ since I was nine or ten.”
She started around him. He grabbed her forearm with a hand that hurt. “I asked you somethin’, nigger. Am I good enough for you to go walkin’ with or not?”
Jane struggled to hide her fright. “Nothing on earth would make you good enough. You let go of me or I’ll go after your eyes with my fingernails, and while I’m at it, I’ll yell for Mr. Meek.”
“Meek’s gonna die.” Cuffey pushed his face near hers, his mouth spewing a fetid odor. “Him an’ all the white folks who kicked and beat and bossed us all our lives. Their nigger pets gonna die, too. So, bitch, you better figure out which side—”
“Let go, you ignorant, foul-mouthed savage. A man like you doesn’t deserve freedom. You’re worthless for anything but spitting on.”
She had listeners on various dark porches. A woman hee-heed, a man laughed outright. Cuffey spun left, then right, the whites of his eyes catching moonlight through the trees. His search for his unseen mockers left Jane free to tear loose and run. She dashed into her cabin and stood with her back against the door, panting.
She pulled her pallet against the door and on top of it laid the one Aunt Belle had used. She decided to leave the lamp burning as a further defense. The cabin was uncomfortable; oiled paper in the window frames didn’t bar the cold. She pulled two thin blankets over herself and pressed her back against the door. She would feel it move if an intruder tried to open it.
She watched the lamp wick burning, saw the faces of two men in the flame. She would go as soon as she could.
Tomorrow.
During the night she dreamed of country roads choked with thousands of black people, wandering aimlessly. She dreamed of great malformed doors opening to reveal a room she had seen before. The room radiated blinding light; from its white heart, calling voices summoned her—
She woke to the crow of roosters and memories of Cuffey flooding her mind. She pushed these aside and seized on the swiftly fading dream images. Aunt Belle had always put stock in the importance of dreams, though she always said a person had to work hard to figure out the meanings. Jane did this and in an hour reached a decision.
It would be harder to stay than to leave. Despite Cuffey, there would be compensations. One was the help she could give her own people to prepare them a little for the jubilo she believed to be certain.
Another compensation might be Andy. But even without him, there was the call of conscience. She wasn’t a Harriet Tubman or a Sojourner Truth; not a great woman; but if she did what she could, she could live with herself. She dressed, fixed her hair, and hurried to the great house to find Madeline.
Orry’s wife was at breakfast. “Sit down, Jane. Will you have a biscuit and jam? Some tea?”
She was stunned by the invitation to share the table with the white mistress. She thanked Madeline, sitting opposite her but taking no food. She caught the scandalized look of a house girl returning to the kitchen.
“I came to discuss my leaving, Miss Madeline.”
“Yes, I assumed that. Will it be soon? Whenever you go, I’ll miss you. So will many others.”
“That is what I wanted to speak to you about. I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to stay at Mont Royal a while longer.”
“Oh, Jane—that would make me so happy. You’re a bright young woman. I hope to start for Richmond before the end of the month. After I go, you could be of great assistance to Mr. Meek.”
“The people I want to help are my own. They must be ready when jubilo comes.”
Madeline’s smile vanished. “You believe the South will lose?”
“Yes.”
Madeline glanced toward the door to the kitchen; there were only the two of them in the dining room. “I confess I have the same dire feeling, though I don’t dare admit it because it would destroy Meek’s authority. And God knows how my husband would operate this place without—”
She broke off, dark eyes seeking Jane’s. “I’ve said too much. I must trust you not to repeat any of it.”
“I won’t.”
“What could you do to help the people get ready, as you call it?”
It was too soon to speak of teaching; a first concession must be won. “I’m not sure, but I know a place to look for the answer. Your library. I’d like your permission to take books and read them.”
Madeline ticked a tiny spoon against the gold rim of her teacup. “You realize that’s against the law?”
“I do.”
“What do you hope to find in books?”
“Ideas—ways to help the people on this plantation.”
“Jane, if I gave you permission, and if your reading or your actions caused any harm to this property and, more important, to anyone who lives here, white or black, I wouldn’t deal with you through Mr. Meek. I’d do it with my own two hands. I’ll have no unrest or violence stirred up.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Jane held back the last of the thought. But someone else might.
Madeline looked at her steadily. “I take that as another promise.”
“You can. And the first one still stands. I won’t encourage any of the people to run away, either. But I will try to find ideas to help them when they’re free to go or stay, as they choose.”
“You’re a forthright young woman,” Madeline said; it was far from a condemnation. She stood. “Come along.”
Jane followed her to the foyer patterned with sunshine through the fanlight. Madeline reached for the
handles of the library doors. “I could be flogged and run out of the state for this.” But she seemed to take pride in opening the doors in a theatrical way and standing aside.
It was the room in her dream. Slowly, Jane walked in. Madeline slipped in after her and shut the doors soundlessly.
“Ideas have never frightened me, Jane. They are the chief salvation of this planet. Read as much of what’s here as you want.”
Leathery incense swirled from shelves without so much as an inch of empty space. Jane felt herself to be in a cathedral. She continued to stand silently, like a petitioner. Then she tilted her head back and raised her gaze to the books, all the books, while a radiance broke over her face.
45
“GEORGE, YOU MUSTN’T RAVE so. You’ll bring on a fit.”
“But—but—”
“Have a cigar. Let me pour you a whiskey. Every night it’s the same. You come home so upset. The children have noticed.”
“Only a statue could stay calm in that place.” He ripped his uniform collar open and stamped to the window, where snow-flakes touched the glass and melted. “Do you know how I passed the afternoon? Watching this nitwit from Maine demonstrate his water-walker: two small canoes fitted onto his shoes. Just the thing for the infantry! Cross the rivers of Virginia in Biblical style!”
Constance held a hand over her mouth. George shook a finger. “Don’t you dare laugh. What makes it worse is that I’ve interviewed four inventors of water-walkers in the last month. What kind of patriotic service is that, listening to men who ought to be committed?”
He pushed at his hair and gazed at the December snowfall without seeing it. Darkness lay on the city, and discouragement; an uneasy possibility of the war lasting a long time. The one shaft of light was McClellan, busy organizing and training for a spring campaign.
“Surely some intelligent inventors show up occasionally,” Constance began.
“Of course. Mr. Sharps—whose breechloading rifles Ripley refuses to order, even though Colonel Berdan’s special regiment was willing to pay the slight extra cost. The Sharps is newfangled, Ripley says. An army ordnance board tested the gun and praised it a mere eleven years ago, but it’s newfangled.” He kicked the leg of a stool so hard that it dented the toe of his boot and made him curse.
“Can nothing be done to overrule Ripley? Can’t Cameron step in?”
“He’s beset by his own problems. I don’t think he’ll last the month. But certainly something can be done. It was done in October. Not by us, however. Lincoln ordered twenty-five thousand breechloaders.”
“He bypassed the department?”
“Do you blame him?” George sank to the sofa, his uniform and disposition in disarray. “I’ll give you another example. There’s a young fellow from Connecticut named Christopher Spencer. Been a machinist at Colt’s in Hartford, among other things. He’s patented an ingenious rapid-fire rifle you load by inserting a tube of seven cartridges into the stock. Do you know Ripley’s objection to it?” She shook her head. “Our boys would fire too fast and waste ammunition.”
“George, I can hardly believe that.”
His hand shot up, witness fashion. “God’s truth! We dare not equip the infantry with guns that might shorten the war. Ripley’s had to give on the breechloaders—we’re ordering a quantity for the cavalry—but he’s adamant about the repeaters. So the President continues to do our work. This afternoon Bill Stoddard told me ten thousand Spencers are being ordered from the Executive Mansion. Hiram Berdan’s sharpshooters will have some to try by Christmas.”
George stormed up again, trailing smoke from a new cigar. “Do you have any notion of the damage Ripley’s doing? Of how many young men may die because he abhors the thought of wasting ammunition? I can’t take it much longer, Constance—thinking of the deaths we’re causing while I pretend to be interested in some village idiot’s water-walker—”
He lost volume toward the end. He stood smoking with his head bowed in front of the window framing the slow downdrift of the snow. She had often witnessed her husband’s explosions of temper, but they were seldom mingled with this kind of despair. She slipped her arms around him from behind, pressed her breast to the back of his dark blue coat.
“I don’t blame you for feeling miserable.” She clasped her hands and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “I have a piece of news. Two, actually. Father’s in the Territory of New Mexico, trying to stay out of the way of the Union and Confederate armies maneuvering there. He feels confident he’ll reach California by the end of the winter.”
“Good.” The reply was listless. “What else?”
“We’ve been invited to a levee for your old friend the general of the armies.”
“Little Mac? He probably won’t even speak to me now that he’s top man.” McClellan had been promoted November first; Scott was finished.
“George, George—” She turned him and looked into his eyes. “This isn’t the man I know. My husband. You’re so bitter.”
“Coming here was a catastrophe. I’m wasting my time—doing no good at all. I should resign and go home with you and the children.”
“Yes, I’m sure Ripley makes you feel that way.” Soothingly, she caressed his face; the day had produced a rough stubble below the waxed points of his mustache. “Do you remember Corpus Christi, when we met? You said you wished the steamer for Mexico would leave without you—”
“That’s right. I wanted to stay and court you. I wanted it more than anything.”
“But you boarded with the others and sailed away.”
“I had some sense of purpose then. A hope of accomplishing something. Now I’m just a party to bungling that may cost thousands of lives.”
“Perhaps if Cameron’s forced to resign, things will improve.”
“In Washington? It’s a morass of chicanery, stupidity, witless paper shuffling—but self-preservation has been raised to a high art. A few faces may change, nothing more.”
“Give it a little longer. I think it’s your duty. War is never easy on anyone. I learned that lying awake every night fearing for your safety in Mexico.” She kissed him, the barest tender touch of mouth and mouth.
Some of his strain dissipated, leaving a face that was almost a boy’s despite the markings of the years.
“What would I do without you, Constance? I’d never survive.”
“Yes, you would. You’re strong. But I’m glad you need me.” He clasped her close.
“More than ever. All right, I’ll stay a while longer. But you must promise to hire a good lawyer if I break down and murder Ripley.”
On Monday, December 16, Britain was in mourning for the Queen’s husband.
News of Albert’s death the preceding Saturday had not yet crossed the Atlantic, but certain pieces of diplomatic correspondence, authored at Windsor Castle shortly before the prince consort’s passing, had. Though not overly belligerent in tone, Albert continued to press for release of the Confederate commissioners.
Stanley knew it was going to happen, and soon, although not for any of the high-flown, moralistic reasons that would be handed out as sops to the press and the public. The government had to capitulate for two reasons: Great Britain was a major supplier of niter for American gunpowder, but she was currently withholding all shipments. Further, a second war couldn’t be risked, especially when the latest diplomatic mail said the British were hastily armoring some of their fighting ships. The smoothbore guns placed to defend American harbors would be useless against an armored fleet.
December became a nexus of hidden but genuine desperations for the government. They threatened Stanley’s little manufacturing empire, which had increased his net worth fifty percent in less than six months. Mounting panic drove him to extreme measures. Late at night, he jimmied drawers of certain desks and removed confidential memoranda long enough to read them and copy key phrases. He had frequent meetings with a man from Wade’s staff in parks or unsavory saloons below the canal; at the meetings he turned over
large amounts of information, without actually knowing whether his actions would help his cause. He was gambling that they would. He was laying all his bets on a single probability, said by some to be certainty: Cameron’s fall.
Even Lincoln was threatened by the militancy of Wade and his crew. The new congressional committee was to be announced soon. Dominated by the true believers among the Republicans, it would curb the President’s independence and run the war the way the radicals wanted it run.
For all these reasons, the atmosphere in the War Department had grown tense. So, on that Monday morning, having just received another bad jolt, Stanley thankfully absented himself. He hurried through a light snowfall to 352 Pennsylvania, where, above a bank and an apothecary’s, three floors housed the city’s and the nation’s premier portrait studio, Brady’s Photographic Gallery of Art. Stanley’s watch showed he was nearly a half hour late for the sitting.
On Brady’s first floor, a dapper receptionist sat among images of the great framed in gold or black walnut. Fenimore Cooper peered from a fading daguerreotype; rich Corcoran had been photographed life-size and artistically colored with crayon, a popular technique; and Brady still kept a hot-eyed John Calhoun on display.
The receptionist said Isabel and the twins were already in the studio. “Thank you,” Stanley gasped as he rushed up the stairs, quickly short of breath because of his increasing weight. On the next floor he passed craftsmen decorating photographs with India ink, pastels, or the crayons Isabel had chosen for the family portrait. Before he reached the top floor, he heard his sons quarreling.
The studio was a spacious room dominated by skylights. Isabel greeted him by snapping, “The appointment was for noon.”
“Departmental business kept me. There’s a war in progress, you know.” He sounded even nastier than his wife, which startled her.
“Mr. Brady, my apologies. Laban, Levi—stop that instantly.” Stanley swept off his tall, snow-soaked hat and smacked one twin, then the other. The strapping adolescents froze, stunned by their father’s uncharacteristic outburst.
