North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  “Let’s stop for tonight,” she said. The announcement brought reactions of dismay. Her eldest pupil, Cicero, protested the most. Recently a widower, Cicero—too old for field work any longer—was a year shy of seventy but swore he would learn to read and write before his next birthday. He said he would die an educated man if he didn’t live long enough to die as a free one.

  Cuffey, who stood in the same place night after night, finally spoke up. “Ought to stop for good, ’pears to me.”

  Andy scrambled up. “If you don’t want to learn anything, stay away.” An older woman mumbled an amen. Cuffey searched the group with murderous eyes, hunting the culprit. The woman was careful to conceal herself behind Cicero.

  Jane always took pains to hide her feelings about Andy. He was her outstanding pupil, and no wonder. They met almost every night, late, so she could give him extra work, and the last time Madeline sent him to Charleston, he had managed to secure a book of his own—an 1841 reader in the series prepared by William McGuffey for the white academies.

  Proudly, he showed her the book when he returned. He produced it from under his shirt, handling it as if it were a treasure instead of tattered sections held to moldy binding by a few threads and dabs of glue. How he had gotten McGuffey’s First Eclectic Reader he refused to say, shrugging off her questions about it—“Oh, it wasn’t hard.” Which she knew to be a falsehood. In South Carolina, a black man who acquired a book placed himself in mortal danger.

  Andy was making fine progress in his studies, which was one reason Jane’s feelings about him were changing. One, but not the only one. Twice, shyly, he had kissed her. The first time on the forehead, the second on the cheek. This earnest, determined young man was changing her life in ways she didn’t altogether understand.

  In response to Andy, Cuffey growled, “I jus’ may. None of us got to stay on this place. We go down to Beaufort, we be free.” Word of Lincoln’s proclamation had spread through the district like invisible fire. People at Mont Royal who had never seen a picture of the Union President spoke his name with a reverence usually reserved for divinities.

  “Sure enough,” Cicero said, shaking a finger at Cuffey. “You go down to Beaufort—you’ll starve ’cause you’re an ignorant nigger who can’t read or write your name.”

  “Mind your tongue, old man.”

  Cicero didn’t step back or lower his gaze. Cuffey glared and addressed the group. “Won’t starve in Beaufort. They gonna give land to the freedmen. Piece of land and a mule.”

  “So you raise a crop,” Andy said, “and the white factors cheat you because you can’t understand or add the figures.”

  Cuffey answered reason with rage. “Somebody raised you to be a real good piece of property, nigger. You ain’ got no backbone; you just got yalla there.”

  Andy lunged. Old Cicero stepped in and barred his way, pushing, panting from the strain of holding the much younger man. Dark hands with candle stubs shook with alarm; shadows wavered violently.

  “I hate being property much as you,” Andy spat back. “I saw my momma sold off, my baby sister sold off. You think I love the folks who did it? I don’t, but I care more about myself than about hating them. I’m going to be free, Cuffey, and I can’t make a life for myself if I stay stupid, like you.”

  Silence.

  Eyes shifted from man to man. Shadows leaped on the whitewashed ceiling. Feet shifted, a whispery sound. Cuffey clenched his fist and raised it.

  “One of these days, I gonna take that tongue and cut it right out of your head.”

  “Shame,” Cicero said softly but firmly. Others repeated it. “Shame—shame.” Cuffey poked his head forward and spat on the floor, a big gob of bubbly white showing his opinion of them.

  “I don’ want your books,” he said. “I don’ want your jubilo neither. I want to burn this place. I want to kill the damn people who killed my babies and kep’ me chained up all my life. That’s my jubilo, you dumb nigger. That’s my jubilo.”

  “You’re crazy,” Jane said, moving to Andy. The chance positioning, side by side, seemed to heighten Cuffey’s anger. “Crazy. Miss Madeline’s the best mistress you could have right now. She wants to help everyone in this room get ready for freedom. She’s a good woman.”

  “She’s a white woman, an’ I’ll see her dead. I’ll see the whole place burned ’fore I’m done.” Cuffey whirled and kicked the door open, stormed out of the sick house and into the dark.

  Shaking their heads and muttering “Shame,” Jane’s pupils drifted away too. Andy stayed. Jane called, “Ned? The two of us can study alone any time you want.”

  Ned didn’t turn or act as if he heard. He just walked straight ahead out the door. She put a hand over her eyes.

  Only one candle remained, the one Andy had brought. It flickered in a cracked bowl near their feet. Jane uncovered her eyes and looked at him. “There’s no helping Cuffey, is there? He’s gone bad inside.”

  “Think so.”

  “Then I wish he’d run again. I wish Meek wouldn’t go after him. I’ve never met a nigra who frightens me as much as he does.” Hardly thinking of what she was doing, she bent her head against Andy’s shirt. He put an arm around her waist, stroked her hair with his other hand. It felt natural and comforting.

  “No need for Cuffey to scare you,” he said. “I’ll look after you. Always, if you’ll let me.”

  “What?”

  “I said—always. If you’ll let me.”

  Slowly, he bent and gently kissed her mouth. Something happened within her then, expressed in a bursting, amazed little laugh. She knew they had sealed their future. With just that kiss. She admitted to herself she had been falling in love for weeks—

  Visions intruded, staining the moment. Instead of Andy’s face, she saw Cuffey’s, and, in twisting shadows on the ceiling, Mont Royal afire.

  “House Resolution Number 611,” Senator Sherman said, tapping the document on his desk. “As you very well know, if it fails to pass both houses, the Academy will have no money to operate.”

  George sneezed. Outside the senator’s windows, snow slashed horizontally. The winter was proving a savage one. George wiped his nose with a huge handkerchief, then asked, “When is the bill to be introduced?”

  “Tomorrow. I expect the House will consider it as a committee of the whole.”

  The office smelled of old cigars. A gold clock ticked. At twenty past ten, most of the town was at home and beneath the blankets. George wished he were. Though he remained bundled in his blue army overcoat with caped shoulders, he couldn’t get warm.

  “What will the House do with it?” His clogged head lent the question an odd thickness.

  “Tinker with it,” replied the general’s younger brother. “Pare down the ten thousand for roofing the academic buildings. Perhaps strike out the section about enlarging the chapel. The members of the Committee on Finance will want to show their authority, but I doubt they’ll do any substantial damage. The hatchets will appear when the bill’s reported over to our side.”

  “Wade is still determined?”

  “Absolutely. He’s a madman on the subject. You know his hatred of the South.”

  “Goddamn it, John, West Point is not the South.”

  “That is your view, George. All members of the Senate don’t share it. A considerable number are on the side of Ben Wade, though a few are wavering. Those are the ones to whom I’ve spoken at some length. I know you and Thayer and the others have made a maximum effort, too—You’ve gotten sick from it, I’d say.”

  George waved that aside. “What are the chances of the bill going down?”

  “It will depend on who speaks and how persuasively. Wade will hold forth at great length, and he’ll offer every imaginable reason for defeat of the measure. Lane will join him—”

  “That isn’t an answer,” George cut in. “What are the odds?”

  Sherman stared at him. “At best—even.”

  “We should have done more. We—”

&nbs
p; “We have done everything possible,” the senator interrupted. “Now we can only await the outcome.” He came around the desk, putting his hand on his visitor’s shoulder.

  “Go home, George. We don’t need officers dying of influenza.”

  Gray-faced, George shuffled out.

  In the snowstorm, it took him three-quarters of an hour to locate a driver willing to make the long trip to Georgetown. He collapsed inside the hack, his teeth chattering. He drove his fist into the side of the hack. “We should have done more!”

  “What’s going on down there?”

  “Nothing,” he shouted. By the time he reeled into his house, he was soaked with sweat and half out of his head.

  66

  JUDAH LEANED ACROSS THE starboard rail. “Look, Pa. Is that a Yankee?”

  Cooper peered into the morning haze and spied the steam cruiser at which his son was pointing. She lay outside the entrance to the roadstead, her sails furled and her men idling on deck. Her ensign hung limp in the bright air. He could see nothing of it except colors—red, white, and a section of deep blue. He doubted it was the national banner of the Confederacy. “I suspect so.”

  A small boat put the pilot aboard. Soon the sound of the engines increased, and Isle of Guernsey steamed slowly into the roadstead. The harbor, protected by small islands to the north, was crowded with vessels driven by steam and sail. Beyond, Cooper saw the pale buildings of tropic latitudes and the green blur of New Providence Island.

  The steamer had brought them down through towering seas and winter gales to drowsy warmth. En route, the British supercargo had shown Cooper the essential goods the vessel carried in her packed holds: long and short Enfield rifles, bullet molds, bars of lead, cartridge bags, bolts of serge. Now it must all be unloaded and placed aboard another vessel for the perilous run through the blockade—which extended even to here, Cooper realized when he saw the enemy cruiser.

  Judith, pretty and cheerful in the new poke bonnet he had presented as an early Christmas present, joined him with their daughter. “There is another argument for the point I was trying to make last night,” Cooper said to his wife. “That’s a Yankee vessel standing watch. I would feel much better if you’d let me find a rental house in Nassau town where—”

  “Cooper Main,” she interrupted, “I have said my final word on that subject.”

  “But—”

  “The discussion is closed. I won’t stay here with the children while you sail blithely off for Richmond.”

  “Nothing blithe about it,” he growled. “It’s a very hazardous journey. The blockade’s tightening all the time. Savannah and Charleston are nearly impossible to get into, and Wilmington’s not much better. I hate for you to chance it.”

  “My mind’s made up, Cooper. If you chance it, so shall we.”

  “Hurrah,” Judah exclaimed, jumping and clapping. “I want to get back to Dixie Land and see General Jackson.”

  “I don’t want to go on a boat if they’re going to shoot at it,” Marie-Louise said. “I’d rather stay here. This place looks pretty. Can I buy a parrot here?”

  “Hush,” said her mother, tapping her wrist.

  Cooper loved Judith for her determination to stay with him, yet he did wish she would follow the more sensible course. He had been debating it with her unsuccessfully since they left the coaling stop at Madeira. He supposed he might as well desist. Perhaps they would experience no difficulty; many runners with good masters and experienced coastal pilots did slip through the net without being fired on or even sighted.

  He swept off his tall hat, leaned over the rail, and watched the harbor and the town rise up. These islands had been Spanish first, then British since Stuart times, and always a haunt of pirates. Nassau itself, a colonial capital with a population of a few thousand, had been thrust into sudden prominence by the war.

  Gulls hunting garbage began to form a noisy cloud at the stern.

  The air smelled of salt and peculiar but pleasing spices. Within an hour, Isle of Guernsey dropped anchor and a lighter bore the

  Mains’ and their trunks and portmanteaus to crowded Prince George wharf.

  The wharf swarmed with white sailors, black stevedores with gold earrings, colorfully dressed women of no discernible occupation, seedy vendors hawking pearls amid heaps of sponges and bananas, sparkling mountains of Cardiff coal, and cotton—bales of it, each steam-pressed to half its original volume.

  Cooper had never seen so much cotton or heard such polyglot clamor as that surrounding the hired carriage that took them along Bay Street to their hotel. He heard the familiar accents of home; clipped British; and a bastardized English, odd and musical, spoken principally by the blacks. The cobbled waterfront could barely accommodate all the people and traffic. The war might be starving the South, but it had clearly brought wild prosperity to this island off the Floridas.

  After installing the family in their suite, Cooper went to the office of the harbor master, where he explained his needs in vague and guarded language. The bewhiskered official bluntly cut through the circumlocutions.

  “No runners in port at present. I am expecting Phantom tomorrow. She will not transport passengers, however. Just that cargo from Guernsey.”

  “Why no passengers?”

  The harbor master peered at him as if he were mentally defective. “Phantom is owned and operated by the Ordnance Department of your government, sir.”

  “Ah, yes. There are four such ships. I’d forgotten the names. I’m an official of the Navy Department. Perhaps Phantom will make an exception.”

  “You’re welcome to speak to her captain, but it’s fair to warn you that other diplomatic gentlemen from the Confederacy have attempted to obtain passage on the government runners without success. When Phantom weighs anchor, she’ll have every inch of deck and cabin space filled with guns and garments.”

  Next morning, in a steamy drizzle that reminded him of the low country, Cooper and his son proceeded through Rawson Square to the harborside and its yelling vendors, strolling whores, idling journalists, gambling sailors, strutting soldiers from the island’s West Indian regiment. Judith still objected to their son’s being exposed to the sights and language of a seaport, but Cooper had given Judah a couple of fatherly lectures in Liverpool on the theory that knowledge was a stronger defense against the world’s wickedness than was ignorance. Striding beside his father and whistling a chanty, Judah didn’t even turn when a seaman lost at toss-penny and cried, “Fucking bloody son-of-a-bitching bad luck.” Sometimes Cooper’s heart felt ready to burst with love and pride in his fine, tall son.

  Phantom had slipped in during the night, flying British colors. Cooper had a short, unsatisfactory talk with her captain. The harbor master was right; even a deputy of Secretary Mallory would not be accommodated as a passenger on an Ordnance Department ship.

  “I am responsible for precious cargo,” the captain said. “I’ll not add responsibility for human lives.”

  The drizzle stopped, and the sun shone. Two languorous days passed. Phantom put out to sea—again at night—and the Yankee cruiser disappeared, no doubt pursuing the smaller vessel. By the end of the week Cooper was sick of waiting and reading old newspapers, even the one that informed him of the stunning Union defeat at Fredericksburg.

  The children quickly tired of the sights of the port. The changing of the guard at Government House was diverting once but not twice; the novelty of flamingos vanished after twenty minutes. Hiring a buggy and taking a picnic to the countryside didn’t improve the situation. Judith resigned herself to mediating a quarrel between her son and daughter approximately once an hour. Cooper found the dispositions of the children influencing his; he was short-tempered and prone to strike out with the flat of his hand, as he did when Judah took a spoonful of local conch chowder, crossed his eyes, and gagged.

  At last, after they had been in town almost a week, the Monday maritime column of the Nassau Guardian listed the weekend’s arrivals, including Water Witch of New
Providence Is., cargo entirely of cotton from St. George’s Is., Bermuda.”

  “She must be a runner,” Cooper exclaimed at breakfast. “Cotton isn’t exactly a major industry in Bermuda, and Bulloch told me those in the trade pretend to cruise exclusively between neutral islands.” So they went off to the harbor again, he and Judah, held up for five minutes by the funeral procession of another of Nassau’s numerous yellow jack victims.

  They reached the runner’s berth. “Strike me,” Judah said, back in his Liverpool phase. “Look at all that bleeding cotton.”

  “Don’t use that kind of language,” Cooper snapped. But he was equally fascinated. Water Witch was a remarkable sight. An iron-plated paddle steamer, she was, by his best estimate, about two hundred feet long and something like three hundred tons. Her masts were short and raked, her forecastle built to resemble a turtle’s back, so she could more easily plow straight through a heavy sea. Every inch of her—hull, paddle boxes, stubby masts—was painted lead gray.

  Every inch he could see, that is. Above the gunwales she looked brown and square because every available deck space held cotton bales piled two and three high. Except for slits to allow visibility, her pilothouse was barricaded behind them.

  Cooper and his son dodged aboard, avoiding bales heaved from one pair of black hands to the next. Cooper asked for the captain but found only the mate.

  “Captain Ballantyne’s ashore. Went first thing. I expect he’s already got his nose buried in some chippy’s—” He spied Judah behind his father. “You won’t find him on board until tomorrow morning when we start loading.” A suspicious pause. “Why d’you want him, anyway?”

  “I am Mr. Main, of the Navy Department. I’m urgently in need of passage to the mainland for myself, my son here, and my wife and daughter.”

  The mate scratched his beard. “We’ll be bound for Wilmington again. The run’s damn dangerous till we’re safely under the guns of Fort Fisher. Shouldn’t think the captain would want to carry civilians, ’specially young’uns.”