North and South

by John Jakes

  Charles raised his head in response to noise and a dust cloud in the lane. The sound of racing hooves and buggy wheels quickly grew louder. He jumped to his feet when he spied the vehicle’s haggard, frightened-looking driver.

  “Madeline,” he called, tossing aside his cigar as he ran into the drive. A moment later he seized the bridle of her exhausted horse, then helped her down. He started to release her waist, but she clung to him. “Madeline, you look scared to death. What’s wrong?” She gazed up at the tall young officer, her expression confused. She struggled to collect herself. All at once she noticed Rex sitting tensely against the pillar. Observations began to connect.

  “I saw that boy at Resolute just a little while ago. I’m sure of it.” By then Rex had raced down the piazza and out of sight.

  The motion of the carriage was soothing, the mood it created euphoric. Shadows of pines and water oaks flickered on the cushions opposite them, projected there by the light falling through roadside groves. Billy held Brett in the curve of his left arm.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  She sighed. “Blissfully. I never thought we’d reach this moment.”

  “I never thought Orry would allow us to reach it.”

  “It was your brother who melted him, you know.”

  Billy chuckled. “The old grads say that if you get through West Point, the place will influence your life forever—in ways you can’t imagine when you’re a cadet. I finally believe it.”

  Brett thought a moment. “How long do you expect you’ll be detained in Washington?”

  “No way of telling. It could be days, weeks, or even—”

  “Horsemen coming, Lieutenant Hazard.”

  Homer’s voice turned Billy toward the open window. The slave didn’t sound alarmed. Yet the mere fact that he had alerted his passengers suggested something unusual about the riders. Billy could hear them off the left rear quarter of the carriage. The hoofs thudded on woodland earth. They were approaching through the trees. Peculiar.

  “Who is it?” Brett asked.

  Billy leaned out the window. Dust clouds speared with sunlight spread behind the carriage. Two dim figures, centaurlike, loomed in that dust, but he could discern no details until the horses stretched into a gallop. Out of the dust came the riders. Billy’s hand clenched on the sill of the window.

  “An old friend of yours. That LaMotte fellow.”

  Even then Brett acted more puzzled than worried. Forbes spurred ahead. His companion, a skinny fellow, finely dressed and about his own age, was close behind. Brett leaned from the other window.

  “Why, that’s old Preston Smith. What in the world are the two of them doing on this twopenny road?”

  Billy had a suspicion they weren’t riding for the sport of it. And they weren’t out here in search of company; the carriage hadn’t passed a human habitation for several miles. A rider appeared on either side of the carriage.

  “Homer, pull up,” Forbes yelled. He had a big smile on his face, but it struck Billy as false. Forbes gestured in a commanding way. “I said pull up!”

  Looking worried, the driver tugged on the reins and shifted his foot to the brake lever. The carriage swayed as it stopped. All around it dust rose slowly, like a curtain. The branches of overhanging trees reached down to brush the luggage lashed on top. At this point the road narrowed to little more than parallel dirt tracks with a high crown of weeds between.

  Preston Smith coughed, then put away the kerchief he had been holding to nose and mouth. Forbes rode around the back of the coach to Billy’s side. He kicked his left leg up onto his saddle and rested his elbow on the inside of his knee. Brett leaned across her husband.

  “It’s quite a surprise to see you way out here, Forbes.”

  Dust lay all over Forbes’s hair, lightening it several shades. He appeared relaxed and friendly. Yet Billy distrusted that impression; there was an odd glint in his eyes. Billy thought of his service revolver. It was packed away up on top. Damnation.

  “Had to pay my respects,” Forbes replied. “You know my friend Preston Smith, I believe.”

  With a cool nod, Brett said, “Yes, we’ve met.”

  “No, sir,” Forbes went on. “I couldn’t let the bride and bridegroom leave without offering a word of congratulations.” His smile glowed. “I know you’ll forgive me if I don’t say the best man won.”

  Below the window, out of his line of sight, Brett clutched her husband’s knee. Billy’s heart beat faster. He voiced the thought that had occurred to both of them.

  “LaMotte, how did you know we were married?”

  Smith patted his skittish horse. “Oh, we just heard it somewhere. I don’t believe I’ve had the honor, sir. You are Lieutenant Hazard?”

  His tone said meeting Billy was anything but an honor. Billy stared him down. “That’s right.”

  “Preston Smith. Your servant.”

  Smith’s smile was contemptuous. All at once Billy didn’t believe this encounter had happened by accident. He glimpsed the jaws of a trap.

  Homer cleared his throat. “We’d best not tarry or we’ll miss the train, Lieutenant.”

  Forbes looked at the black man. “Bound for the passenger stop, are you?”

  Homer didn’t blink. “Yes, sir, and I believe we’ll mosey along.”

  “Nigger, you aren’t going anywhere till I give you leave.”

  Angry, Billy said, “Drive on, Homer.” From the corner of his eye he saw Smith lean backward, reach down to a saddlebag, and bring up a huge brass-chased flintlock dueling pistol. It was swiftly, almost effortlessly, done. Smith smiled as he pointed the gun at Homer.

  “You touch those reins and there’ll be nigger blood all over this road.”

  “We don’t mean to be quarrelsome,” Forbes said, his grin bigger than ever. “But we rode a piece to pay our respects, and we mean to do it. Now, Mr. Yankee Soldier, you climb down from that coach and out from behind your wife’s skirts so I can congratulate you proper.”

  Brett’s hand tightened again. “Billy, don’t.”

  But anger was running high in him. He pushed her hand away, kicked the door open, and stepped to the ground.

  Forbes sighed. “No, sir, I just can’t say the best man won. Although it does appear you’ll be on top for a while, if you catch my meaning.”

  Billy reddened. Smith laughed, a kind of whinnying. As a great snowy egret went sailing over the tops of the pines, Billy took a step toward Forbes’s horse.

  “Watch what you say in front of my wife.”

  Forbes and his friend exchanged quick, pleased looks. “Why, Mr. Hazard, that sounds suspiciously like a threat. I consider a threat to be a personal insult. Or did I perchance misinterpret you?”

  “Billy, come on,” Brett called. “Don’t waste your time on these bloody-minded fools.”

  Forbes turned his smile on her. “You know, sweet, I still confess a fondness for you—even though that tongue of yours sometimes transforms you into a first-class fishwife. Bet you even hump like one.”

  “LaMotte, you son of a bitch, get off that horse!”

  Tossing his head and laughing, Forbes maneuvered his mount out of the path of Billy’s lunge. Then he slid to the ground, smoothed his palms over the hair at his temples, and strolled forward.

  “I don’t believe I misinterpreted that remark, sir. You insulted me.”

  With a grave nod, Smith said, “He surely did.”

  Forbes stood gazing down at Billy, who was almost a full head shorter. “I ask for satisfaction, sir.”

  Homer watched in consternation as Brett leaped from the carriage. “Walk away from him, Billy. Don’t you see he came here to bait you? I don’t know how he found out we were leaving, but don’t play his game.”

  Eyes warily fixed on his adversary, Billy responded with a small shake of his head. “Stay out of this, Brett. LaMotte—”

  “I said,” Forbes interrupted, “I demand satisfaction.” His hand swept up, then whipsawed across Billy’s face. The
open-palm slap resounded loudly. “Right here and right now,” Forbes finished, his charming smile settling in place again.

  “Damn you,” Brett burst out. “I knew you were jealous, but I didn’t know it had driven you crazy. How long have you been planning this?”

  “A long time, I won’t deny that. But it’s the fairest and most honorable way for me to settle my differences with Mr. Hazard. Preston is carrying a spare pistol in his saddlebag. He’ll act as my second. For yours”—his glance jumped from Billy to the carriage—“reckon you’ll have to serve, Homer. I’d say it’s fitting for a Yankee to have a nigger second.”

  Brett’s voice was cracking from strain. “You mustn’t do this, Billy.”

  “Please be quiet,” he cut in. He took her shoulders, then led her around the coach to the other side. Bending close, he whispered, “I’ve got to fight him. Can’t you see he came chasing after us so he could kill me? If we try to leave, he’ll find some pretext to shoot me outright. This way—”

  He swallowed. Perspiration had gathered on his chin. A drop fell suddenly, darkening his lapel like a bloodstain.

  “At least I have a chance.”

  She shook her head, gently at first, then harder. Tears welled in her eyes. Billy squeezed her arm and walked back to the far side of the carriage. She heard him say:

  “All right, LaMotte. Let’s use that field over there, by the marsh.”

  “Your servant, sir,” Forbes said, and bowed.

  Billy stripped off his coat, cravat, and waistcoat. He flung them over the spines of a yucca plant growing near the drooping fronds of a wild palm. Homer approached, but Billy waved him back.

  “Stay with Brett. I can do this by myself.”

  “Why, certainly, it’s simple enough,” Smith agreed as he summoned the duelists into the sunshine at the center of an open stretch of bermuda grass that was seething softly in the wind.

  Smith held out his hands. In each lay a dueling pistol. A matched pair, Billy noted, further proof the roadside meeting was not accidental. Men simply didn’t go for an afternoon’s gallop packing such pistols in their saddlebags.

  “I will load these with powder and ball in plain view of both you gentlemen. Then, starting back to back, you will take ten paces at my command. After the tenth you may turn and fire at will. Any questions?”

  “No,” Forbes said, rolling up one sleeve, then the other.

  “Get on with it,” Billy said.

  Mocking him with another bow, Smith knelt in the grass, opened his saddlebag, and drew out two powder flasks, one about a third the size of the other. From the larger flask he poured propellant powder down the muzzle of the first pistol. After he seated the ball and a cloth patch, he primed the frizzen with the finer-grained powder from the small flask.

  He handed the gun to Forbes, who gave it a cursory inspection and nodded. Forbes seemed more interested in watching his friend steady the second pistol between his legs, muzzle uppermost.

  Billy saw Smith reach for the large flask again. Forbes cleared his throat. Billy turned toward him.

  “You don’t object to a man pissing before he fights, do you?” Billy shook his head. “Then perhaps you’ll be kind enough to hold this till I come back.”

  He was already extending his pistol. Billy had to take it, and as a consequence he didn’t see Smith shift the position of the flask over the muzzle of the gun he was loading. Most of the propellant powder spilled into the thick grass.

  It had been well planned and accomplished in a twinkling. Forbes’s distracting query had drawn Billy’s attention at the proper moment; the maneuver with the powder had gone unnoticed. All anyone saw was Smith crouching, the pistol partially obscured by his knee and the waving grass.

  Smith finished seating the second ball, primed the pistol, and said, “There.” He rose and held the heavy gun, which now contained too little powder to propel the ball with anything like its designed muzzle velocity. It was in no way a lethal weapon.

  At the spot where Smith had crouched down, Billy noticed a few powder grains speckling the grass. He thought of asking that the pistols be exchanged but quickly squashed his suspicion. Not even a jealous suitor would stoop so low as to tamper with weapons used in an affair of honor.

  Forbes returned. Billy handed him the first pistol. Smith extended the second gun. “Thank you,” Billy said, and took it.

  Smith cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, shall we commence?”

  64

  “IS BILLY HAZARD HERE?” Madeline asked. About five minutes had passed since her arrival at Mont Royal. Charles had helped her inside to the library and sent for Orry, who stood with his back against the closed doors, a stricken expression on his face.

  “He left,” Charles told her. “With Brett. They’re going to catch a northbound train at the flag stop. They were married two hours ago.”

  “Married,” Madeline repeated in a dazed way. “That must have something to do with it.”

  “With what?” Orry said.

  His voice was sharper than he intended, but he was being battered by emotion: joy that sprang from her unexpected arrival, grief that wrenched him when he looked at her poor, wasted face. She had lost even more weight, but something far worse had happened to her, although he didn’t know what it was.

  “Forbes,” she whispered. “Forbes and his friend Preston Smith. They left Resolute just before I did. I overheard them speaking to Justin about—about killing Billy. Someone from here must have brought word that he and Brett were leaving.”

  Charles bit down on the stub of the cigar, which had gone out. “Could it be the boy you saw outside?”

  “I don’t know.” Madeline’s eyes had acquired a queer, glassy fix. “It must be.”

  “Which boy are you talking about?” Orry wanted to know.

  Charles’s expression was bleak now, forbidding. “Ashton’s boy, Rex. I’ll find him.”

  He crossed to the door. Orry passed him, striding to Madeline. “You’re certain they were talking about harming Billy?” Charles stopped at the door, awaiting her answer.

  “The word I heard was killing.” She fought an impulse to weep; she couldn’t seem to control herself. “Killing.”

  Orry scowled. “By Christ, I’ll speak to Justin about—”

  “There’s no time,” Madeline cried. “And Justin doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve left him.”

  Orry stared, not understanding.

  “Left him,” she said again. “I’m never going back to—” Before she could finish, she pitched forward in a faint.

  She fell against Orry’s chest and drove him a step backward, but he managed to catch her and hold her up. “Send someone to help me with her,” he exclaimed to Charles.

  Charles nodded, a thunderous look on his face as he left.

  “Ashton, where’s your boy?”

  His cousin glanced from the silver tea service. She had been about to pour cups for herself and Clarissa in the parlor.

  “Do you mean Rex?”

  “I do. Where is he?”

  Charles’s stark eyes drove the smile from her face. “Outside, I reckon. Whatever is making you so cross?”

  She was dissembling desperately; she had heard the buggy arrive just as she and her mother sat down. From the window she had observed Madeline, dirty and ugly as a witch, being helped inside. She hadn’t dared poke her nose out of the parlor for fear something had gone wrong.

  Charles didn’t answer her question. As he stalked out, his boots slammed the floor so hard it shook.

  With a bright, interested smile, Clarissa said, “I didn’t recognize that young man. Is he a visitor?”

  “He’s your nephew, Mama!”

  Her tone brought tears to Clarissa’s eyes. Ashton rubbed her cheek with quick little motions. “I’m sorry I burst out like that. I’ve developed the most violent headache all at once—”

  “Perhaps the tea will help.”

  “Yes. Yes, perhaps.”

  Her hand shook as she a
ttempted to pour. She missed the cup and nearly dropped the pot. “Oh, damn.”

  The profanity brought a gasp from Clarissa. Ashton slammed the pot back on the tray. Then she leaped up and paced back and forth. Charles was onto something. Definitely onto something. If she appeared too curious, she might incriminate herself—yet did she dare leave him alone with Rex? The boy was just itching to do her ill.

  For a minute or so she was wracked by indecision. Finally she dashed out of the room without a word of explanation. Clarissa folded a napkin and began to wipe up the tea the young woman had spilled. So nervous, that girl. Clarissa tried hard to recall her name but could not.

  On the kitchen porch, Charles crouched over Rex, one palm resting against the gray cypress siding next to the boy’s ear. He had found Rex gnawing a chunk of salt pork, and before the boy could scramble away, Charles had squatted down and cowed him with that forbidding hand against the wall.

  “Rex, I won’t stand for lies, do you understand?”

  Desperate dark eyes swept the lawn beyond Charles’s shoulder. The boy knew he was caught. In a small voice he said, “Yessir.”

  “You ran all the way to Resolute and back, didn’t you?”

  Rex bit his lower lip. Scowling, Charles leaned closer.

  “Rex—”

  Faintly: “Yes.”

  “Who did you speak to over there?”

  Another hesitation. “Mist’ LaMotte.”

  “Justin LaMotte?”

  Rex scratched his head. “No. Mist’ Forbes. I was tole—”

  He stopped. Charles prodded:

  “Who told you? I want you to say the name of the person who sent you to Resolute.” He already knew it, of course; once he had gotten past his initial surprise and disgust, the plot was all too transparent and believable. He took his hand away from the wall and touched Rex’s arm gently.

  “I promise that if you tell me, no harm will come to you.”

  The boy struggled with that, studied Charles, and was at last persuaded. Abruptly, a peculiar smile jerked his mouth. But Charles was losing patience.

  “Damn it, boy, we haven’t time for this. I want to hear you say—”