North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  “Hallo, Cooper,” Mallory said. He was a roly-poly man of fifty, born in Trinidad and reared mostly in Key West by an Irish mother and a Connecticut Yankee father. He had a tilted nose, plump cheeks, and bright blue eyes that often sparkled with excitement. He reminded Cooper of an English country squire.

  “What luck?”

  Cooper sneezed. “None. The design for the cradle and canister are good enough; the problem is the one we saw when we first examined the plans. A torpedo attached to driftwood will do one thing predictably—drift. Without guidance, it’s as likely to blow a hole in Fort Sumter as it is to sink a Yankee. Most probably it would float around Charleston harbor for weeks or months, un-detonated and potentially dangerous. I’ll put it all in my report.”

  “You recommend we forget about it?” The secretary looked extremely tired tonight, Cooper observed.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, that’s definitive, if nothing else. I appreciate your conducting the test.”

  “General Rains proved the value of torpedoes in land operations,” Cooper said, sitting down in a hard chair. “The Yankees may think them inhuman, but they work. They’ll work for us if we can find the proper means to deliver them to the target and make certain they fire.”

  “All true. But we’re making precious little progress with them.”

  “The department’s overtaxed, Stephen. Maybe we need a separate group to develop and test them on a systematic basis.”

  “A torpedo bureau?”

  Cooper nodded. “Captain Maury would be an ideal man to head it.”

  “Excellent thought. Perhaps I can find funds—” Cooper sniffed and Mallory added, “You sound terrible.”

  “I have a cold, that’s all.”

  Mallory received that skeptically. Perspiration glistened on Cooper’s forehead. “Time for you to go home to a hot meal. Speaking of which, Angela remains determined to see you and Judith. When will you take supper with us?”

  Cooper slumped farther down in the chair. “We’ve already refused three invitations from my brother. I’ll have to satisfy that obligation first.”

  “I appreciate your industry, certainly. But you must take more time for yourself. You can’t work every moment.”

  “Why not? I have debts to repay.”

  Mallory cleared his throat. “So be it. I have something else to show you, but it can wait till morning.”

  Cooper unbent his long body and stood. “Now will be fine.” He circled the desk and peered into the soft oval of lamplight. The top drawing showed a curious vessel indicated as forty feet end to end. In the elevation, it reminded Cooper of an ordinary steam boiler, but in plan the bow and stern showed a pronounced taper, much like a cigar’s. The vessel had two hatches, indicated on the elevation as only a few inches high.

  “What the devil is it? Another submersible?”

  “Yes,” Mallory said, pointing to a decorative ribbon in the lower right corner. Elaborate script within the ribbon spelled H. L. Hunley. “That’s her name. The accompanying letter states that Mr. Hunley, a well-to-do sugar broker, was responsible for the concept and some of the first construction money. She was started at New Orleans. Her developers rushed her away to Mobile before the city fell. These gentlemen are finishing the job.” He tapped a line beneath the ribbon: McClintock & Watson, Marine Engineers.

  “They call her the fish ship,” the secretary continued. “She’s supposed to be watertight, capable of diving beneath an enemy vessel”—his hand swooped to illustrate—“dragging a torpedo. The torpedo detonates when the fish ship is safe on the other side.”

  “Ah,” Cooper said, “that’s how she differs from David.” The department had been laboring to develop a submersible for coast and harbor operations. The little torpedo vessel he had just mentioned carried her explosive charge in front, on a long bow boom.

  “That and her mode of attack. She is definitely designed to strike while submerged.” David, though a submersible, was meant to operate on the surface when ramming with her boom.

  An underwater boat wasn’t a new idea, of course. A Connecticut man had invented one at the start of the Revolution. But few government officials, and certainly not the President, believed that the idea might have a current application. Its only proponents were Mallory and his little cadre of determined dreamers. Brunel would have understood this, Cooper thought. He would have understood us.

  After a moment, he said, “Only testing will show us which design’s the best, I suppose.”

  “Quite right. We must encourage completion of this craft. I intend to write the gentlemen in Mobile a warm and enthusiastic letter—and forward copies of all the correspondence to General Beauregard in Charleston. Now go home and get some rest.”

  “But I’d like to see a little more of—”

  “In the morning. Go home. And be careful. I trust you’ve read about all the murders and street robberies lately.” Cooper nodded, unsmiling. The times were dark with trouble. People were desperate.

  He bade Mallory good evening and trudged to Main Street, where he was lucky enough to pick up a hack at one of the hotels. It rattled up to Church Hill, where they had leased a small house at three times the peacetime price. Judith, a book in her lap, raised her head as he came in. Half in sympathy, half in annoyance, she said, “You look wretched.”

  “We splashed in the James all day. To no purpose.”

  “The torpedo—?”

  “No good. Anything to eat?”

  “Calf’s liver. You wouldn’t believe what it cost. I’m afraid it’ll be cold and greasy. I expected you long before this.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Judith—you know I have a lot of work.”

  “Even when you were trying to build Star of Carolina, you seldom stayed out this late. At least not every night. And when you came home, you smiled occasionally. Said something pleasant—”

  “This is not a pleasant time or a pleasant world,” he replied, cold and aloof suddenly. A droplet hung quivering on the end of his nose. He disposed of it with a slash of his soaked sleeve. “As Stephen says, it is no laughing matter to have the fate of the Confederacy in the hands of soldiers with swollen vanities in place of brains.”

  “Stephen.” She snapped the book shut, held it with hands gone white. “That’s all I ever hear from you—Stephen—unless you’re cursing your sister.”

  “Where’s Marie-Louise?”

  “Where do you suppose she’d be at this hour? She’s in bed. Cooper—”

  “I don’t want to argue.” He turned away.

  “But something’s happened to you. You don’t seem to have any feeling left for me, your daughter—for anything except that damned department.”

  One of his slender hands closed on the frame of the parlor door. He sniffed again, head lowered slightly. The way he gazed at her from under his eyebrows frightened her.

  “Something did happen to me,” he said softly. “My son drowned. Because of this war, my sister’s greed, and your refusal to remain in Nassau. Now kindly let me alone so I can eat.”

  In the kitchen, seated near the cold stove, he cut into the liver, ate three bites, and threw the rest away. He went to their bedroom, lit the gas, and shut the door. After undressing, he piled two coverlets on, but still couldn’t get warm.

  Presently Judith came in. She undressed, put out the lamp, and climbed in beside him. He lay with his back to her, his face to the wall. She was careful not to touch him. He thought he heard her crying but didn’t turn over. He fell asleep thinking of the drawings of the fish ship.

  Once a week, Madeline repeated her invitation to dinner. Near the end of May, Judith finally prevailed on Cooper to stay away from the Navy Department for one evening. At four o’clock on the appointed day, he sent a message home saying he would be late. His hack didn’t arrive on Marshall Street until half past eight.

  In the spacious rooms on the top floor, the brothers embraced. “How are you, Cooper?” Orry smelled whiskey and was dismayed
by the sight of his pale, disheveled guest.

  “Very busy at the department.” The reply made Judith frown.

  “What sort of work goes on there?” Madeline asked as she led them in to the table set with lighted candles. She was anxious to serve the meal before it was ruined.

  “We’re engaged in the job of killing Yankees.”

  Orry started to laugh, then realized the remark was meant seriously. Judith stared at the floor, unable to conceal a look of distress. Madeline glanced at her husband as if to say, Is he drunk?

  Murmuring a pretext—“May I help?”—Judith followed her hostess to the hot kitchen.

  Madeline raised the lid of a steaming pot. “Can you conceive of greens selling for three and a half dollars a peck?”

  The false cheer failed. Judith glanced at the closed door and said, “I must apologize for Cooper. He isn’t himself.”

  Madeline replaced the lid and faced her sister-in-law. “Judith, the poor man acts like he’s ready to explode. What’s wrong?”

  “He’s working too hard—the way he did when Star of Carolina was on the verge of failure.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

  Judith avoided her eyes. “No. But I mustn’t say anything. I promised I wouldn’t. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

  Presently the four were seated with their food—the greens, a few potatoes sliced and fried, and the entree, a stringy saddle of lamb Madeline had purchased at one of the small farmers’ markets springing up on the outskirts of the city. “Orry will pour claret, or water, if you prefer that. I refuse to serve that vile concoction of ground peanuts they’re selling as coffee.”

  “They’re selling a great many strange things,” Judith said. “Pokeberry juice for writing ink—” She stopped as Cooper thrust his glass toward his brother. Orry poured it half full of claret, but Cooper didn’t draw his hand back. The goblet sparkled in the candlelight. Orry cleared his throat and filled it full.

  “Some—” Cooper gulped half of the claret, dribbling dark drops on his already-stained shirt bosom “—some in this town drink real coffee and write with real ink. Some can pay for those things.” He stared at his brother. “Our sister, for one.”

  “Is that right?” Madeline said with forced lightness. Cooper’s stare was sullen, his speech slurred. Something ugly was in the air.

  “I’ll grant you Ashton lives in a fine house,” Orry said. “And on the few occasions when I’ve seen her on the street, she’s always been handsomely dressed—Worth of Paris or something equivalent. I can’t imagine how she affords it on Huntoon’s salary. Most clerks in the government make a pittance.”

  Cooper drew a long, raspy breath. Judith clenched her hands beneath the table. The shout of a water seller reached them through open front windows, then the creak of his wagon. “I can tell you how they afford luxuries, Orry. They’re profiteers.”

  Madeline’s mouth formed a little o. Orry put down the fork with greens. “That’s a serious accusation.”

  “I was on her ship, God damn it!”

  “Dear,” Judith began, “perhaps we’d better—”

  “It’s time they knew.”

  “What ship do you mean?” Orry said. “The blockade-runner that went down? The one you—?”

  “Yes, I mean Water Witch. Ashton and her husband owned a substantial interest in it. The owners issued standing orders for the skipper to run the blockade at all hazards. We did, and I lost my son.”

  He shoved back hair hanging over his forehead, and in the midst of all the shocks, Madeline noticed for the first time that Cooper was going gray. “For Christ’s sake, Orry, either pour the wine or pass it here.”

  Noticeably upset, Orry filled Cooper’s glass again. “Who else knows about Ashton and James?”

  “The other owners, I suppose. I never heard their names. The only man on the ship who seemed privy to the information was the skipper, Ballantyne, and he went down like—” Cooper’s face wrenched. The memory was too hard to articulate.

  He drank. Stared at the flame of the candle in front of him. “I’d like to kill her,” he said, bringing the empty goblet down so hard the stem snapped.

  Everyone stared. “Excuse me,” Cooper said, bolting from his chair. It fell backward with a crash. He flung out his hand to prevent a collision with the wall and lurched to the parlor. He managed to reach the settee before he passed out.

  They heard a rain shower starting. A sudden breeze set the candle flames in motion. Judith again apologized for Cooper’s behavior. Stricken, Orry said apology was unnecessary. “But I hope he didn’t mean that last remark.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t. The loss of Judah was grievous for both of us, but it seems to have done special damage to him.”

  Orry sighed. “All his life he’s expected the world to be better than it is. People with that kind of idealism get hurt worst of all. I hope he won’t do anything rash, Judith. Ashton has already failed at the one thing she wanted most in Richmond—to belong to the best circles. I expect punishment for the profiteering will find her eventually. If he tries to judge and sentence her”—he glanced over his shoulder at the sad scarecrow figure on the settee—“he’ll only harm himself.”

  The wind gusted, lifting the parlor curtains, stirring the gray-streaked hair on Cooper’s forehead. Judith said, “I try to tell him that. It does no good. He’s drinking heavily, as you surely noticed. I fear what he might do sometime when he’s had too much.”

  Softly said, the words put dread into Orry. The three sat in silence, listening to the rain come down on the roof and the ruins of the evening.

  Copies of the Richmond Enquirer reached the Winder Building every week. One issue, which George read with mingled curiosity and sadness, contained several long articles describing Jackson’s funeral. On an inside page was a list of high-ranking military officers who had marched in the procession. Among the names he discovered that of his best friend.

  “There it is—Colonel Orry Main,” he said to Constance, showing her the paper that night. “He’s listed with others from the War Department.”

  “Does that mean he’s in Richmond?”

  “I assume so. Whatever he’s doing, I’m sure it’s more important than interviewing lunatics and reading the fine print in contracts.”

  With a touch of regret, she said, “Your guilt’s getting the best of you again.”

  He folded the paper. “Yes, it is. Daily.”

  Homer stepped into the dining room, pausing beside the open-fronted cabinet that contained Ashton’s fine blue jasperware. Water Witch had brought the set from Britain on her penultimate voyage.

  Huntoon took off his spectacles. “Mr. Main? Which one? Orry?”

  As always, it was Ashton to whom the elderly Negro addressed the reply. “No. The other one.”

  “Cooper? Why, James, I had no idea he was in Richmond.”

  Thunder boomed in the northwest; bluish light glittered throughout the downstairs. It was June, muggy, the town astir with rumors of an impending invasion of the North by General Lee.

  “He is here, he is very definitely here,” said a thick voice from the shadows outside the dining room. Into the doorway stepped a frightening figure—Cooper, right enough, but aged since Ashton had last seen him. Horribly aged and gray. His cheeks had a waxy pallor, and his whiskey stench rolled over the table like a wave, submerging the aroma of the bowl of fresh flowers in the center. “He’s here and anxious to see how his dear sister and her husband are enjoying their newfound wealth.”

  “Cooper dear—” Ashton began, sensing danger, trying to turn it aside with a treacly smile. Cooper refused to let her say more.

  “Very fine house you have. Splendid furnishings. Treasury salaries must be larger than those in the Navy Department. Must be enormous.”

  Trembling, Huntoon clutched the arms of his chair. With a laconic hand, Cooper reached toward the open shelves. Ashton’s fist clenched when he plucked out one of the delicately shaded blue p
lates.

  “Lovely stuff, this. Surely you didn’t buy it locally. Did it come in on a blockade-runner? In place of guns and ammunition for the army, perhaps—?”

  He threw the plate down with great force. Splinters of the white Greek figure embossed in the center rebounded into the light. One struck the back of Huntoon’s hand. He muttered a protest no one heard.

  Ashton said, “Brother dear, I am at a loss to explain your visit or your churlish behavior. Furthermore, while you’re as disagreeable as you ever were, I am astounded to hear what sounds like patriotic maundering. You used to scorn James when he gave speeches in support of secession or states’ rights. But here you are, sounding like the hottest partisan of Mr. Davis.”

  She forced a smile, hoping to hide the fear inside. She didn’t know this man. She was in the presence of a lunatic whose intentions she could not guess. Without reacting, she saw Homer edging toward Cooper behind his right shoulder. Good.

  Ashton placed her elbows on the table and cushioned her chin on her hands. Her smile became a sneer. “When did this remarkable transformation to patriot occur, may I ask?”

  “It occurred,” Cooper said above the muttering storm, “shortly after my son drowned.”

  Ashton’s control melted into astonishment. “Judah—drowned? Oh, Cooper, how perfectly—”

  “We were aboard Water Witch. Nearing Wilmington. The moon was out, the Union blockading squadron present in force. I pleaded with Captain Ballantyne not to risk the run, but he insisted. The owners had issued orders. Maximum risk for maximum earnings.”

  Ashton’s hand fell forward. Her skin felt as if it were frozen.

  “You know the rest, Ashton. My son was sacrificed to your intense devotion to the cause—”

  “Stop him, Homer,” she screamed as Cooper moved. Huntoon started to rise from his chair. Cooper struck the side of his head and knocked his glasses off.

  Homer seized Cooper from behind and yelled for help. Using an elbow, Cooper punched him in the stomach, breaking his hold, shouting over a thunderclap, “The cause of profit. Your own fucking, filthy greed.” He laid hands on the display cabinet and pulled.