by John Jakes
“Orry, come away.” Brett tugged his arm.
“Philadelphia express—final call!” The stentorian voice echoed through the depot.
That broke the tension, set up a scramble for the door. After a nod of thanks to the man with the shotgun, Orry turned and reluctantly followed his sister to the platform.
The express was rattling toward Wilmington. Sadness mingled with anger when Orry spoke.
“I didn’t know that kind of hostility existed. Men ready to fight one another in public places. Incredible.”
His erstwhile naiveté dismayed him. The situation in the country had deteriorated far beyond anything he had imagined. If some people envisioned a peaceful separation of the states, they were imbeciles.
“I’m glad we left when we did,” Brett said. “You could have been badly hurt, and for no purpose.”
His hand still throbbed from punching the man in the checked suit. He peered at his knuckles. “Guess you’re right. But I don’t like running from a fight.”
She tried to make light of it. “You ran to catch a train.”
Unsmiling, he muttered, “Damn Yankee trash.”
“Orry, when you talk that way, you’re no better than those oafs in the restaurant.”
“I know. Funny thing is, I don’t much care about that.” He drew a deep breath. “I resent having to behave like a gentleman. I hate turning tail. I’ll never do it again.”
Their welcome at Belvedere was warm, although Maude was not part of it; she had gone to Philadelphia for a few days. The visitors presented their gifts—Brett promised to send Constance a duplicate of the broken pelican—marveled at how the children had grown, and after a fine meal of duckling went off gratefully to bed. Orry slept nine hours but didn’t feel rested when he woke.
“I can’t wait to show you the Bessemer converter,” George said at breakfast. He was full of energy and enthusiasm, which had the curious effect of heightening Orry’s sour feeling. George had done nothing to offend him. It was the whole North that offended him. He hoped the mood would pass; it threatened to spoil the reunion.
George put a match to his second cigar of the morning. “Soon as you’re finished, we’ll take a look. I’m paying a steep royalty, but in the long run I anticipate that it’ll be worth it.”
“You don’t sound convinced,” Orry said.
“Oh, I am—to a point, The time saving is enormous. But there’s still a problem with the process. I’ll show you.”
Orry didn’t want to ride all the way across the smoky, foul-smelling grounds of Hazard Iron, step into an iron-roofed shed, and there peer at an egg-shaped contraption that rotated on a pivot. But he did it to humor his friend.
The workmen had finished a blow and were tapping the converter into a floor trench. The steel flowed like a ribbon of light.
Proud as a parent watching a child, George said, “A chap in Wales solved Bessemer’s worst problem. Did Cooper tell you about that?”
“Yes, but I didn’t understand most of the explanation.” His tone said he didn’t care.
George’s reaction veered from disappointment to annoyance, but only for an instant. “Bessemer was producing what the trade refers to as burnt iron. He purged out the carbon, which meant there was none to transform the iron to steel, and he had no idea of how to put some back in. The Welshman experimented with adding charcoal and manganese oxide. Next he tried a compound the Germans call spiegeleisen—iron, carbon, some manganese. That did the trick. While Bessemer and the Welshman wrangle over who owes what to whom, I’m experimenting with spiegeleisen and paying Bessemer his royalty at the same time—even though his American patents are still up in the air. I’m not yet convinced the process is practical, though.”
“Why not?”
“It involves too much guesswork. The carbon content can be judged only by the color of the converter flame. That’s no way to make steel reliably, batch after batch. Another fellow may have come up with a method better than Bessemer’s, a German-born Englishman named Karl Siemens. I’ve written him—Orry, you aren’t interested in a syllable of this, are you?”
“Of course I am.”
George shook his head. “Let’s go outside where it’s cooler.”
Once there, he looked with concern at his friend. “You haven’t seemed yourself since you arrived. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
He did know but could not say it aloud. He was angry with his friend simply for being a Yankee.
The Hazards dined at two that afternoon. Orry still felt tense and cross. While he dutifully brought George up to date on the status of his investment, he kept seeing him as a virtual stranger. Had they once called each other by ridiculous names like Stick and Stump? Inconceivable. The times had grown too grim for nicknames or laughter. Perhaps they were even too grim for friendship.
“That’s excellent progress,” George said when Orry concluded. “I’m happy to hear it.” He lit a cigar.
Orry coughed and waved the smoke away. George frowned and muttered an apology. But he didn’t extinguish the cigar, merely transferred it to his other hand.
After a moment of strained silence, Orry began, “You never told me your reaction to Elkanah Bent turning up in Texas.”
“I was thunderstruck when you mentioned it in that letter. I’d completely forgotten him.”
“The point is, George, he hasn’t forgotten us. If Bent still hates me, and can transfer that hatred to my cousin, the same thing could happen to you.”
His friend’s laugh was curt, hard. “Let him come to Lehigh Station and try whatever he wants. I’ll give him a reception he won’t forget.”
“I was thinking more of your brother, Billy. He’s still in the Army.”
George waved his cigar. “Oh, I said something to him right after I heard from you. But I advised him not to waste time worrying about some lunatic—at least not until his path crosses that of the infamous Captain Bent. You shouldn’t worry either. God, I can’t believe the Army’s never caught up with him,” he finished with a shake of his head.
George’s cavalier dismissal only heightened Orry’s annoyance. Fortunately there was a diversion. William, a handsome boy who bore a strong resemblance to his father, had been squirming with excitement for the past few minutes. Now he burst out:
“Tell me how Charles is fighting the Indians!”
“That was last year,” Orry snapped. “Now he’s off to the Rio Grande, chasing some Mexican bandit named Cortinas. I wrote your father all about it—ask him.”
Young William caught the crossness of Orry’s reply and he in turn recognized the lad’s bewilderment. To make up for it, Orry began to tell him about the Second Cavalry’s pursuit of the border bandit. Patricia, a year younger than her brother, wasn’t interested. She and her mother and Brett fell to discussing fashions, and especially the gown from Charles Worth of Paris, which Constance had ordered for a gala charity ball. The ball, first of its kind in Lehigh Station, would raise money for the schoolhouse.
“The dress is much too grand for such an affair.” Constance laughed. “But I do love it, and George insisted I buy it. I’m afraid the local ladies will point fingers, though.”
“Jealously,” George said. Orry was envious of the affectionate glance that passed between husband and wife.
“’Specially Aunt Isabel,” Patricia said.
Orry asked, “How are Stanley and his wife?”
Patricia answered by sticking out her tongue and making a hideous face. Constance lightly tapped her daughter’s wrist and shook her head. George said, “We don’t see much of them. Stanley’s thick with Boss Cameron, and Isabel has her own friends. Thank heaven. To contradict Scripture and that fellow Lincoln, our house is divided, but it manages to stand very nicely.”
Constance smiled in a rueful way. “There is one difference, dear. Stanley and Isabel’s separation from us isn’t voluntary. You threw them out.”
“True, but—” A noise at the dining-room doo
r diverted George and the others. “Ah, Virgilia.”
Hastily, Orry pushed his chair back and rose. “Good evening, Virgilia.”
“Good evening, Orry,” she replied as she swept to an empty chair. She might have been saying hello to a carrier of cholera.
“I didn’t know you were visiting,” Orry said, sitting again. He was shocked by Virgilia’s appearance. She looked ten years older than when he had last seen her. Her skin had a sickly yellow cast; her dress needed laundering, her hair combing. Her sunken eyes held a wild glint.
“I arrived this morning.” As always, she managed to turn a trivial remark into a pronouncement. Orry wondered about her Negro paramour, the runaway, Grady. Rumors of their liaison, more and more sensationalized with repeated tellings, had reached and scandalized Charleston. Was she still living with him? Orry didn’t intend to ask.
“Tomorrow I’ll be traveling down to Chambersburg,” she went on. Irritably, she motioned to one of the servant girls standing by the wall. The girl rushed to serve Virgilia’s soup.
Virgilia’s eyes locked with those of the visitor. Don’t let her goad you, he said to himself. But it was hard to heed the warning. Frequently Virgilia touched off a red rage within him; in his present mood that could easily happen.
Brett watched the two of them closely as Virgilia added, “I’m helping with the work being done by an abolitionist named Brown. John Brown of Osawatomie.”
Orry had heard of Brown, of course. Who hadn’t? He had seen engravings of the man’s gaunt face and long white beard in Harper’s Weekly. Born in Connecticut, Brown had been active as an abolitionist for a long time. But he had really become notorious in Kansas where he and five of his sons had fought several bloody battles on behalf of free soil. In 1856 men under Brown’s command had slain five pro-slavery settlers in the so-called Pottawatomie Massacre.
Recently he had been lecturing in the Northeast to raise money for some mad scheme of his—a provisional government he had proclaimed up in Canada. Presumably it was connected with the underground railroad. Brown’s tarnished history and Virgilia’s challenging stare prompted Orry to a blunt reply:
“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to help a murderer.”
Anxious looks flew between Brett and Constance. Virgilia pursed her lips.
“It’s to be expected that you would say something like that. Calling names is the chief means of discrediting anyone who speaks the truth about slavery or the South. Well, you and your kind should be warned. You won’t be practicing your barbarities or running your secret breeding farms much longer.”
“What the devil does that mean?”
“One day soon a messiah will lead your slaves in a great revolution. Every white man who doesn’t support it will be destroyed.”
Shocked silence. Even Brett was fuming. Orry’s anger, smoldering for days, burst into flame. He thrust his chair away from the table. Stiffly, he said to George, “Please excuse me.”
Constance gave her sister-in-law a stabbing look. Then she turned to Orry. “You shouldn’t be the one to leave.”
Virgilia smiled. “But of course he will. Southerners find the truth unbearable.”
Orry closed his hand on the back of his chair. “What truth? I’ve heard none at this table. I’m bone-weary of being treated as if I’m personally responsible for every offense committed by the South—either those that are real or those you’ve conceived in your deranged mind.”
Color rushed to George’s face. “Orry, that’s strong language.”
Orry barely heard. “Breeding farms! How do you come by these fantasies? Do you find them in yellow-backed novels?” George stiffened again at the reference to pornography. Orry’s voice rose. “Do they thrill you, arouse you? Is that why you constantly dwell on them?”
He was marginally aware of Constance herding the children from the room. Virgilia’s smile grew angelic. “I would anticipate a denial of evil from those who perpetuate it.”
The room seemed to tilt and blur. Orry could no longer tolerate the sound of her voice, impregnable in its smugness. Restraint departed, rage poured out.
“Woman, you’re mad!”
“And you are finished, you and your kind.”
“Shut up!” he shouted. “Shut up and go back to your nigger lover where you belong!”
As soon as the last word was out of his mouth, shame overwhelmed him. He felt as if the floor were sinking beneath his boots. Moments ago his vision had blurred. Now he saw faces with perfect clarity. Angry faces. The angriest belonged to George, who had torn the cigar out of his mouth and was squeezing it so hard the dark green wrapper cracked.
Virgilia struggled to maintain her false smile while Brett glared. Once more Constance attempted to restore peace:
“I think it’s you who spoke intemperately, Virgilia.”
Cold eyes fixed on George’s wife. “Do you?”
“Would an apology be so difficult?”
“Not difficult but unnecessary.”
Orry wanted to pick up his wineglass and hurl the contents in her face. Despite his shame, his wounded pride dominated. These people challenged, judged, and passed sentence on an entire social system and damned the good along with the bad. It was not to be borne.
He noticed George scowling at him and snapped, “I should think you, at least, would take issue with her conduct.”
George flung his broken cigar on the table. “I take issue with her choice of words, but she’s on the right side.”
George’s hostility went through Orry like a sword. The rift, long a fearsome possibility, had become inevitable. He collected himself, squared his shoulders, and spoke with stinging intensity.
“I don’t believe, sir, we have anything further to discuss.”
“That,” George said, “has become evident.”
Orry looked at him. It was impossible to deny the fury he saw on George’s face—or felt within himself. Never before had he and George Hazard been enemies, but they were enemies now.
“I must find my hat,” he said to his sister. “We’re leaving.”
Brett was unprepared for the announcement, speechless. He strode to her side, gripped her elbow, and steered her to the front hall. “Kindly deliver our luggage to the local hotel,” he said without looking back. A few seconds later, the front door closed with a click.
In the dining room the only person smiling was Virgilia.
George didn’t return to the mill that afternoon. He roamed the house, a cigar in one hand, a tumbler of whiskey in the other. He was mad at Orry, mad at himself, and didn’t know what to do next.
Virgilia vanished upstairs. Constance came down after seeing to the children. William ran outside, and Patricia went to the music room. It was here George found his daughter half an hour later. She was laboring through a minuet on the pianoforte.
Patricia saw her father standing in the doorway, looking glum.
“Papa, are you and Orry not friends anymore?”
That simple question jolted him, wrenched everything back into proper perspective.
“Of course we are. Orry will be back here before supper. I’ll see to it.”
In the library where he kept some writing materials he sat down, pushed the iron meteorite aside, and inked a pen. He wrote swiftly, commencing the note with the words: Stick—will you accept my apology?
“You want Mr. Main?” The clerk at the Station House consulted his ledger. “He took a room at the day rate for his sister, but I believe you can find him in the saloon bar.”
The servant from Belvedere pushed through the slatted swinging doors and crossed the deserted barroom to a table by the window. There a gaunt, bearded man sat staring into an empty glass.
“Mr. Main? From Mr. Hazard, sir.”
Orry read the note and briefly reconsidered his decision to leave on the evening train. Then he remembered the atmosphere at Belvedere and all the things that had been said. He couldn’t accept George’s apology or his invitation to return, as if noth
ing had happened. And if that scuttled the Star of Carolina, it was Cooper’s problem.
The servant cleared his throat. “Is there a reply, sir?”
“Just this.”
Orry tore the note and dropped the pieces into a brass spittoon.
“Goddamn him!” George exclaimed. “Can you believe what he did?”
“Yes,” Constance said. “You’ve described it ten or twelve times already.”
Teasing him did no good. Besides, she didn’t feel amused, although under happier circumstances she might have said her husband was a comical sight as he paced barefoot up and down the bedroom with his dead cigar clamped in his teeth and his slight paunch showing at the waist of his linen underdrawers, the only garment he was wearing.
“Of course I have,” George said. “I tender a perfectly sincere apology, and in return the son of a bitch insults me.”
The windows of Belvedere stood open to catch the autumn breeze. In cool weather George loved to sleep curled around his wife, and she loved having him there. But she doubted either of them would sleep much tonight. He had been cursing and fulminating ever since the servant returned from the Station House.
“You were just as hard on Orry, darling.” She sat against the headboard with her unbound hair spilling over the shoulders of her muslin gown. “There’s guilt on both sides—and it was really Virgilia who caused the whole thing. I will not tolerate her disruptions of this household indefinitely.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Don’t worry, she’s already left for Chambersburg.”
“Of her own choice?”
“No, I insisted she go.”
“Well, that’s something.” Constance adjusted a bolster at the small of her back. The muslin gown stretched taut between her breasts. She began to brush her hair with slow, lazy strokes. She had reluctantly become convinced that Virgilia’s abusive behavior was incorrigible, had passed the edge of toleration. She wanted to say that George hadn’t solved the problem of his sister and wouldn’t until he turned her out for good. But this was not the moment to raise that issue.
