Last Cavaliers Trilogy

by Gilbert, Morris

  Morgan frowned. Perhaps it was he who was blind, refusing to see the disaster looming so clearly in the forefront of his friend’s mind. “What would you do, sir, if there was a war?” he asked.

  DeForge shrugged. “I know that Maryland is considered a border state, but I’ll never believe she would secede. Personally, I have great sympathy for the South. I’ve lived here for almost twenty years, and I love it here. I’ve been happier living here than any place I’ve ever been. If Virginia seceded, I would stay here and face the consequences.”

  Jolie rejoined them and slipped back into her seat. “Cleo will be here in a few minutes with tea, Mr. DeForge.”

  “That’s fine, child,” he said absently. Then he continued speaking to Morgan. “But are you asking what I would do, in the practical sense, if we were at war?”

  “I suppose so,” Morgan said. “I’m still trying to imagine such a terrible thing.”

  “Yes, you may think I’m just an old worrywart,” DeForge said with a smile. “But for a few moments let’s talk as if I’m in my right mind. If I knew that I was going to be caught in a war, I would start hoarding. I would hoard gold, first of all, because it is truly a universal currency. Then I would hoard all of the necessaries I could gather. Foodstuffs, wood, coal, tools, nails, fabrics such as wool and cotton, soap, candles—anything and everything I could think of that I would need to run my homestead.”

  Morgan frowned. “But surely we will always be able to buy such things as food and clothing. I mean, those are the absolute necessities of life. Surely we wouldn’t end up back in the Dark Ages!”

  “Before I became ill, I traveled all over,” DeForge said calmly. “I’ve been to the Far West, to Maine, to Florida, all over the Midwest. Let me explain something to you, Mr. Tremayne. The Southern slave states will never be able to win a war against the industrialized North. I have an import/export business. In the North and the Midwest they import and export everything. They have thriving industries, they have disposable incomes, they are not land-poor like so many planters are. The South exports cotton, period. And they have to import everything else.” He shook his head. “I could be wrong about the coming war, certainly. It may not come in a couple of years. It may not come to that at all. But one thing I do know, Mr. Tremayne. If it does come, the South will end up desolately poor and naked. It’s simple economics.”

  Jolie’s gaze had been darting back and forth between Morgan and DeForge as they spoke. Her eyes were huge and luminous, her expression one of deep distress. DeForge focused on her, then took her hand in his. “I apologize, Jolie. Children shouldn’t have to listen to such things, especially just an old man’s ranting.”

  “You’re not old,” she said. “And you never rant.”

  “Exactly,” Morgan said in a low voice. He was all too afraid that Henry DeForge knew exactly what he was talking about. He quickly pushed the unwelcome thoughts aside and forgot them.

  But later, with deep regret, he was to recall every word that Henry DeForge had said.

  Jolie was curled up and seemed almost boneless with her legs tucked under her and her body bent. She was sitting on one side of the enormous fireplace in the parlor, while Henry DeForge sat on the other side.

  In spite of the fact that it was a warm night, DeForge had ordered a big fire built, and he wore a wool shawl. Occasionally he coughed, a painful racking sound that made Jolie wince. Still, she kept reading aloud:

  “‘We are friends,’ said I, rising and bending over her, as she rose from the bench.

  ‘And will continue friends apart,’ said Estella.

  I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and as the morning mist had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so, the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her.”

  With a sigh, Jolie closed the volume. “I just love Great Expectations.”

  “It’s always been my favorite of Dickens’s novels. Oh Jolie, you’re not crying!”

  Quickly Jolie wiped the tears from her cheeks. “But it’s sad. Pip had such a hard life and then lost the girl he loved.”

  “Why, he didn’t lose her, child,” DeForge said. “Look at that last sentence. ‘I saw no shadow of another parting from her.’ They didn’t part from each other. The two shadows stayed together, so it’s a happy ending.”

  Jolie managed a weak smile. “Why, it’s so, isn’t it? I’m so glad. I think it’s awful to lose someone that you love.”

  “Yes, it is,” DeForge said quietly, staring into the flames. “It is truly awful.”

  After a few moments, Jolie said hesitantly, “Mr. DeForge? May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course, Jolie.”

  “Well, you see, I am thirteen now. Do you—would you be able to tell me about my parents?”

  “That’s right,” DeForge said with surprise. “I forgot. You did turn thirteen in April, didn’t you, Jolie?”

  “Yes, sir. And you’ve always said I needed to be older before you told me about my parents. I just thought that maybe thirteen is old enough.”

  “I see. You may be right, Jolie. Maybe thirteen is old enough.” He shifted in his chair, which brought on a coughing spell.

  Jolie wanted to run to him and hold him, but she knew he didn’t like gestures of tenderness such as that.

  Finally the coughing subsided, and he went on in a weak voice, “I will tell you about your mother. She was a quadroon. Do you know what a quadroon is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It means she was one-quarter black and three-quarters white.”

  “So I’m black?” Jolie asked with no visible surprise.

  “You are one-eighth black, yes. But you are not, and never will be, a slave,” DeForge said firmly.

  Jolie digested this for a while then asked, “My mother, what was she like? Was she nice?”

  “She was a very beautiful woman, inside and outside. She was sweet and kind, and she was very religious, although I know that doesn’t mean much to you, since I haven’t brought you up that way.” A curious half smile touched his lips. “She would be very angry with me if she knew I had neglected that part of your education.”

  “She would?” Jolie asked, astonished. “But she was a slave, wasn’t she? If she was black, she had to be a slave. Surely she couldn’t get angry with you!”

  “Yes, she was a slave. But still she was angry with me at times.”

  “Do you—is there a picture of her, Mr. DeForge?” Jolie pleaded. “I would love a picture of her more than anything.”

  DeForge hesitated for a long time. Finally he turned to stare back, unseeing, into the fire. “No, there is no picture of her.”

  “Oh. No, I guess there wouldn’t be, not if she was a slave,” Jolie said sadly. “But Mr. DeForge, what about my father? Did you know my father?”

  In a curiously dead tone he said, “Yes, I knew your father. He was not a good man. He was not good to your mother. She died in childbirth, having you, Jolie, and he was bitter and angry because of that for a long time.”

  “You’re saying ‘was,’” Jolie said. “Is he dead?”

  “I hope so,” DeForge said angrily. “I truly hope so. I don’t want to talk about him any more, Jolie. In fact, I’m very tired. I’d like to go to bed now.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll get Box,” she said, jumping up.

  Later, as Jolie lay sleepless in her bed, she figured out what had been wrong with the conversation she’d had with Mr. DeForge. It had had a false ring to it, and now she knew why.

  It was the first time he had ever lied to her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next year was very good for Morgan. Rapidan Farm thrived and prospered. Morgan had at last been accepted in Fredericksburg, which was an insular, proud little town.

  He visited the DeForge place regularly, as he was invited, and even though there was such a difference in their ages, he thought of Henry De
Forge as his closest friend.

  Somewhat to his surprise, he also kept in close touch with Mrs. Robert E. Lee at Arlington. She wrote him regularly, and every time he had business in the northern part of the state, he stopped by to see her. Colonel Lee had returned to active duty in Texas in February of 1860, and it seemed to Morgan that she was always particularly glad to see him then, because she was alone at Arlington. The girls traveled a lot, and when Millie turned fourteen, they had sent her to boarding school in Winchester. Morgan always stayed long hours with Mrs. Lee, talking about family and also about business things concerning the plantation, for Mrs. Lee was now running Arlington by herself, as she had done for so many years as her father grew older.

  November 7, 1860, was a fine, icily clear day. Morgan and Vulcan made their way along the worn path between the two farms to DeForge House. The week before, Henry DeForge had purposely asked Morgan to come to tea on the day after the election. Morgan was troubled. Abraham Lincoln, an ardent abolitionist, had been elected. For the most part he had ignored politics, as his own life seemed so settled, so safe and secure. Even now he didn’t much want to think or talk about slavery or secession or the Union. He hoped that Mr. DeForge didn’t want to talk about it either, but he thought very likely that would be the topic his friend wanted to discuss.

  When he reached DeForge House, he saw the black buggy in the backyard and immediately recognized it. It was Dr. Travers’s buggy. The doctor had a little homestead just downriver from DeForge House. Morgan sprang out of the saddle, threw the reins around the hitching post, and ran into the house.

  Cleo met him at the door. “He had a bad spell. It’s the first time he’s tole us to call the doctor,” she said, troubled.

  “Is the doctor with him right now?”

  “Yes, sir. If ’n you’d like to wait in the parlor, Box has got a good fire in there.”

  “Thanks, Cleo. I’ll wait. I’d like to see him if I could.”

  “Yes, sir. He ’specially said he wants to talk to you, Mr. Tremayne.”

  Morgan nodded and went into the parlor. He walked up to the fireplace and stripped off his gloves to warm his hands. Silently he stared down into the flames, wondering just how ill DeForge was. Morgan had seen that he had grown visibly weaker in the past year, and the coughing fits he suffered seemed to come more often. But he still had been alert, interested in all of Morgan’s news of the farm, knowledgeable and articulate about current events. He never complained.

  Morgan became aware that someone was watching him, and only then did he see Jolie sitting in a chair up at the front of the room by the window. She was sitting bolt upright, her hands restless in her lap. She looked terrified. “Hello, Mr. Tremayne. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was here, but I just couldn’t get the words out somehow.”

  “It’s okay, Jolie,” he said soothingly. “How is he? Tell me what happened.”

  “He was fine, just fine this morning,” she said, obviously bewildered. “He ate a good breakfast, and we played chess. He asked Cleo for sponge cake for tea. But then he started coughing, and it seemed like he couldn’t stop. He got out of breath, and we got scared. Finally he told Box to go for the doctor.”

  “I know Dr. Travers. He’s a good man. Maybe this is just a touch of catarrh.”

  She shook her head. “His handkerchief…there was blood.”

  Morgan didn’t know what to say. He himself was extremely healthy, as was his entire family. It was true, he did know Dr. Travers because he had made it his business to know all his neighbors. But he had never had to call him for medical reasons.

  They waited in silence for what seemed a long time. Finally they heard footsteps on the marble stairs, and Dr. Travers came in. He was a young man, in his early thirties, with sandy brown hair and kind brown eyes. He had two children, a boy and a girl, and another one on the way, Morgan knew. He also knew that Dr. Travers was poor, for although he was the only doctor for miles around, the small farmers couldn’t afford to pay him much in cash. Instead, they paid him in chickens or tomatoes or canned jam or sides of bacon. Morgan himself had recommended him to Mr. DeForge when the slaves had gotten influenza that spring.

  Jolie jumped up when he came into the room then stood, her hands curled into tight bloodless fists at her side. “How is he?” she asked in a strangled voice.

  “He’s sleeping quietly,” Dr. Travers answered, stepping up to warm himself at the fire. “I gave him a sleeping draught. He didn’t want to take it, but…” He made a helpless little motion with his hand. “Hello, Mr. Tremayne,” he said. “One reason Mr. DeForge didn’t want to take the medicine was because he insisted that he had to talk to you. But—I’m sorry, Jolie, but I guess you probably already know this. Mr. DeForge has consumption, and that, unfortunately, is an incurable disease. The best thing I can do for him is give him something to stop the coughing and help him sleep.”

  Morgan asked, “But how is Mr. DeForge. I mean, where is he in the course of the disease?” Morgan didn’t want to ask if he was dying in front of Jolie.

  Dr. Travers seemed to understand the question very well. “We don’t know much about why the disease progresses at different rates in different people. But I feel optimistic about Mr. DeForge for several reasons. One is that he’s had this disease for many years, and so it’s obviously progressing very slowly in his case. I personally think that moving here, away from Baltimore or any other large industrial city, has likely helped him. Most big cities have a noxious atmosphere. Here the air is clean and pure. Another thing that encourages me is that Cleo tells me that his appetite is good,” he said, glancing questioningly at Jolie.

  “Oh yes, sir,” she said eagerly. “He eats well and eats regularly. I make sure of that.”

  “That’s good, Jolie. One of the first signs of a terminal stage is a loss of appetite and refusal to eat. If he still wants to eat and eats good, nourishing food, then I would say that we have nothing to worry about just yet,” he finished warmly.

  Jolie took a deep breath and sat back down, obviously relieved.

  Morgan was still worried. “Dr. Travers, I was planning on going back to my home in the Shenandoah Valley tomorrow for Christmas, so I plan to be away for at least a month. Does Mr. DeForge…that is, do you think he’ll be all right?”

  Cautiously the doctor replied, “No man knows his appointed time, Mr. Tremayne. But based solely on what I’ve seen and heard here today, I see no reason why Mr. DeForge shouldn’t recover quickly. Barring any complications, that is.”

  “You’re going away for a month?” Jolie exclaimed. “But that’s such a long time!”

  “Yes, I know,” Morgan said thoughtfully. “It’s the first time since I’ve moved here that I’ve felt able to take a long holiday.”

  “Oh, I see,” Jolie said slowly. “You would want to be with your parents and your brother and sisters for Christmas.”

  For a moment it jarred Morgan, thinking of Jolie and Henry DeForge here alone during the holiday season. But it wasn’t really his concern, was it? His primary responsibility was with his own family. “I’ll give you my address, Jolie,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I’d like it if you and Mr. DeForge would write to me.”

  “Of course,” she said stiffly.

  “You say Mr. DeForge is asleep? How long will he sleep, do you think?” Morgan asked Dr. Travers.

  “I hope through the afternoon and all night,” he answered. “I’m leaving more laudanum with Cleo just in case he needs another dose. I think if he rests quietly for the next twenty-four hours he’ll be much better.”

  Morgan nodded. “Jolie, please tell Mr. DeForge I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk today, but as soon as I get back, I’ll come by and get caught up on all the news. Good-bye for now, Jolie, and God bless you and Mr. DeForge.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tremayne,” she said.

  Morgan smiled at her as he left. He thought of how small and defenseless she seemed in that big armchair. When the cold brisk air touched his face an
d he heard Vulcan’s welcome nicker, he felt the burden of worry for his friend lift. He said a quick prayer for Mr. DeForge and Jolie and then turned his thoughts to his trip home.

  Morgan lifted the brass lion’s-head door knocker and rapped sharply twice.

  The Bledsoes’ maid, Nance, answered the door and made a quick, awkward curtsy.

  “Hello, Nance. Is she in the parlor?” Morgan asked as he handed her his hat and gloves.

  “Um, yes sir, but, um…,” she stammered.

  Morgan ignored her and went into the parlor with the ease of a longtime caller. He had been seeing Leona for almost two years now. He went into the small but elegantly furnished sitting room and stopped in surprise.

  Leona was there, seated on one end of the long camelback sofa. On the other end of the sofa sat Wade Kimbrel.

  Leona looked up, and Morgan thought for a moment that she looked angry, but then her expression smoothed out, and she rose, coming to him with her hands outstretched. “Well hello, Morgan. This is a surprise. I thought you were leaving for the Valley.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m taking the 5:00 train,” he said, eyeing Wade Kimbrel, who remained seated. He made a quick bow over her hands, and she motioned him to an armchair by the fireplace.

  Leona Rose Bledsoe was now twenty-one years old. Morgan had actually met her back in 1855, when he had moved to Rapidan Run. Although his family had connections in Richmond, Morgan had wanted to be a part of nearby Fredericksburg, and so he had formed all his business associations there, including getting his own lawyer. He had decided to go with the largest firm in the wealthy little town, Mercer & Bledsoe, and Leona’s father, Benjamin Bledsoe, had been his lawyer for the last five years. He had started attending St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church upon Benjamin Bledsoe’s recommendation. At church Morgan had gotten to know the family: Mrs. Eileen Bledsoe; Gibbs Bledsoe, Leona’s brother, who was one year younger than Morgan; and their daughter, Leona. But she had been only sixteen at the time, and he had dismissed her as a child.