Love and War: The North and South Trilogy (Book Two)

by John Jakes

  Facing that quandary and the growing feeling that they were finished, she had been sleepless many a night lately. This promised to be another such night. “Oh God,” she said very faintly, continuing to cry in silence.

  Later, she opened her eyes and realized she must have slept after all. Freezing there beside him, she burrowed under the cover and called herself a ninny for her earlier behavior. “Oh, God.” The tears. The despair.

  She had always prided herself on strength, self-sufficiency. And merely because she had lowered her defenses and thereby gotten her emotions trampled, she needn’t let it continue. She did love Charles, but if the price of it was perpetual misery, she refused to pay. The wrenchings of the war wouldn’t stop—at least not soon enough—so it was up to her to force him to his senses.

  He needed a shock. A dose of strong medicine. She would give it to him in the morning. Feeling secure again, she fell asleep.

  He had others things on his mind in the morning. He strode into the kitchen soon after sunrise, tucking in his gray shirt and pulling up his galluses. She had scarcely offered her greeting before he announced, “I meant to say my piece about Richmond last night. Any day now—”

  “There will be more fighting. You must think I’m an idiot, Charles, always needing instructions from the all-knowing male. I realize the Union forces are at Culpeper Court House and they’ll march soon—this way, undoubtedly. But you aren’t going to decide when I must look for shelter in the city.” She struck her wooden spoon on the edge of the stove, where grits were simmering. “I will decide.”

  His face grew long above his white-spiked beard. He hooked a stool with his boot, pulled it from under the table, and lit a fresh cigar as he sat down. “What in hell’s got into you?”

  She threw the spoon on the stove and marched toward him. “A strong desire to settle some things. If you care for me, act like it. I’m tired of your clomping in here whenever you take a notion. Helping yourself to a meal and—whatever else you want, and grumbling and growling like a boor the whole time.”

  He drew the smoldering cigar from his mouth. “Having me around doesn’t suit you, Mrs. Barclay?”

  “Don’t glare and sneer at me. You treat me like a combination cook, laundress, and whore.”

  He jumped up. “In the middle of a war, people don’t have time for all the little niceties.”

  “In this house they do, Charles Main. Otherwise they don’t set foot in it. Every time you’re here, you act as if you’d rather be somewhere else. If that’s true, say so and let’s be done with it. Believe me—” no, don’t, said a voice she ignored “—in the state you’re in, you’re no prize.”

  In the side yard, her rooster chased two cackling hens. Boz, chopping wood, sang “Kingdom Coming” with la-la’s instead of words. Charles stared at Gus, his eyes wide above the dark half-circles that had been there since he came back from Pennsylvania last summer. Suddenly, she saw a startled innocence in his gaze.

  Elated, she didn’t dare smile. But she had gotten through. Now they could talk. Work it out. Save—

  Fierce knocking. Washington on the kitchen stoop.

  “Man on horseback jus’ turned in. Comin’ around back right now.”

  Hoofbeats and the jingle of metal sounded outside. Charles grabbed for his gun belt hanging on a chair, jerked out the six-shot Colt. He was crouching when the horseman’s round face and flop hat passed the side windows.

  Charles stood, hung the gun belt over his shoulder, and opened the kitchen door. “What are you doing here, Jim?”

  “Hate to roust you out, Charlie, but this here letter come for you ’bout ten o’clock last night. Morning, Miz Barclay.” Jim Pickles touched his hat with the crumpled missive, which he then handed to Charles.

  “Good morning, Jim.” Gus slowly wiped one hand on her apron, then the other. The chance was lost.

  Jim pointed to the letter. “Says War Department on it. Personal an’ confidential. Mighty fancy.”

  “Looks like it’s been buried under six feet of dirt.”

  “Well, pretty near. Man who brung it said it was in a bunch of letters an’ dispatches somebody come across in the woods near Atlee’s Station. They found the courier shot dead—been there some time, I guess—an’ his pouch open an’ this an’ a lot of other stuff strewn about. Mebbe Kilpatrick’s sojers did it. Anyway, the letter’s been a while in root, as the saying goes.”

  To Gus, Charles said, “Atlee’s Station in the place General Hampton and three hundred of us bushwhacked Kilpatrick on the first of March. We yelled so loud, we made ’em think we were three thousand—”

  He was breaking the seals, unfolding the sheet. His beard lifted in the morning breeze. “You’re right, Jim; it was written in February. It’s from my Cousin Orry, the colonel.”

  Stunned, he read on. Then he gave Gus the letter. Consisting of one long paragraph, it was inscribed in a fine hand, with all the proper loops and flourishes. As she finished reading, Charles said to Jim, “Billy Hazard is in Libby Prison. Half dead, according to that.”

  “You talkin’ about some Yank?”

  “My old friend from West Point. I’ve told you about him.”

  “Oh, yeh,” said the younger scout, unimpressed. “What are you s’posed to do about it?”

  “Go see Orry in Richmond right away. I’ll get my gear.”

  Starting back into the kitchen, Charles had a thought. He turned and pointed at Jim. “And you forget what I just said, understand? You never heard a word.”

  The swift clump of his boots faded inside. Jim Pickles dismounted, stretched in the sunshine, scratched his armpit, as cardinals swooped in and out of the budding red oaks at the front of the property.

  “So Charlie’s goin’ to Richmond, hah? I s’pect he can get away, all right. Things are still pretty quiet. Guess it’s the old calm before the storm. General Hampton’s back home in Columbia, tryin’ to muster three new regiments so Butler an’ some of the old hands will get a little relief. Say, Miz Barclay, may I show you something?”

  Reluctantly, she turned her gaze from an empty kitchen. “Surely, Jim.”

  From the pocket of his butternut shirt he took a small, square case of cheap yellow metal. “Mighty proud of this. Came two days ago. My sisters got together an’ paid for it.” He opened the case on an oval ambrotype of an unsmiling middle-aged woman wearing a black dress. Her face looked like something made from granite, with very little of the granite block removed.

  “That’s my ma,” he said proudly. “Fine likeness, too. She’s raised us kids since Pa died. I was only four when he went out shootin’ deer with a bunch of boys an’ got his leg blowed off. He only lasted two weeks. Ma ain’t been in the best of health the last year or so. Worries me. I love her better than any person in this world, an’ I ain’t ashamed to say it. I’d walk through fire if it’d please her.”

  “That’s commendable, Jim,” Gus said, returning the case.

  Charles appeared with his hat, patched jacket, and the little cloth bag in which he kept his razor and cigars. He squeezed her arm gently, gave her cheek a peck.

  “You mind what I told you about Richmond.”

  Unhappy because the chance to set things straight had slipped away, she burst out, “ I’m not one of your recruits to be ordered about. I told you, I’ll make my own decision.”

  The fiery sunrise filled his eyes. “All right. We’ll settle this whole mess next time.” It was less plea than warning. She folded her arms over her bosom.

  “If I’m here.”

  “My God, you’ve got a vinegar tongue this morning.”

  “So have you. And I’m astonished by your tender concern for your Yankee friend. I thought you wanted to kill every last man on the other side.”

  “I’ll only go to Richmond because it’s Orry who’s asking. That enough explanation for you? Come on, Jim, let’s get my horse.”

  She stormed inside and kicked the door shut. When she heard the flurry of hoofs at the side of the
house, she didn’t leave the stove or raise her hand. The grits were burned. Ruined.

  As the sounds grew faint, she ran to the side window, the tears born of failure coming again. She strained and squinted, but she could see nothing but dust where the Fredericksburg road vanished into the greening countryside.

  Halfway to the capital, a pass in his pocket, Charles rested Sport beside a sunlit creek. While the gray drank, he reread Orry’s letter. What business did he have answering such a summons? No more than he had prolonging his involvement with Gus. War changed a lot of things.

  He sat on a half-buried rock beside the purling stream and read the letter a third time. Old memories, emotions, began to undercut his rigid sense of duty. Hadn’t the Mains and the Hazards—well, most of them—vowed that the bonds of friendship and affection would survive the hammerings of this war? This wasn’t simply one more Yank Orry was writing about. This was his best friend. And the husband of his own Cousin Brett.

  That was one bond. Another, forged at the Academy, couldn’t be broken or dismissed easily either. Many an officer leading troops against an old classmate had learned the truth of that.

  He put the letter in his pocket, ashamed of his first impulses to ignore it. He didn’t like himself much any more, for that and a lot of other reasons. He smoked another cigar, then galloped on toward Richmond.

  98

  AFTERWARD, JUDITH REALIZED SHE should have been prepared for catastrophe. All the warning signs were there.

  Cooper seldom slept more than two hours a night. Often he never came home at all, spreading a blanket on the floor of his office. He was dragging Lucius down, too. The exhausted young man finally got up nerve to appeal to Judith privately—could she not do something, anything, to slow her husband’s demented pace?

  Lucius hinted that some of the tasks Cooper assigned him were make-work. Judith didn’t question that, since it was already clear to her that her husband’s fatigued mind was confusing motion with purpose.

  She promised Lucius she would try to remedy the situation. She spoke to Cooper in what she considered a gentle and tactful way, but only provoked an outburst that kept him away from Tradd Street for two whole days.

  Since his temper erupted without pattern or logic, there was no way to anticipate and avoid circumstances that might trigger it. She could do little more than keep the house calm and quiet whenever he was there. Marie-Louise was forbidden to play or practice her singing, a ban that brought on arguments with her daughter. She issued no social invitations and refused the few they received.

  In this way she preserved an uneasy tranquillity until mid-April, when it was announced that General Beauregard would leave to command the Department of North Carolina and Southern Virginia. What was really being thrust on him was responsibility for the Richmond defense lines. A farewell reception at the Mills House was quickly arranged. Cooper announced this fact and said they would go. On the day of the reception, Judith tried to persuade him to change his mind—he had rested less than an hour the night before—but he seized his tall gray hat and matching gloves and his best walking stick, and she knew she was defeated.

  They left through the Tradd Street gate. Judith took her husband’s arm. His expression bemused, he was listening to the tolling bells of St. Michael’s.

  At Meeting, they turned north toward the hotel. The mild air, mellow gaslights, and blue shadows of evening created the illusion of a city at peace. She could tell Cooper wasn’t at peace. He hadn’t spoken since leaving the house. His downturned mouth and vacant eyes, familiar sights, still had the power to inflict great hurt.

  They reached the Broad Street intersection and paused beside two soldiers near the steps of St. Michael’s. About half a block away, on the other side of Meeting, a group of eighteen or twenty prisoners approached. The Yanks had probably been captured out on Morris Island. Three boys in gray, none older than eighteen, guarded the older men, who were laughing and talking as if they enjoyed their captivity.

  Gaslight flashed on the bayonets of the young guards and cast bright glints into Cooper’s eyes. His head ached from the loud ringing of the bells in the steeple above. He watched the Yanks come shambling and skylarking across Meeting toward the corner where he stood with his wife. A blue-coated sergeant, heavy-bellied, noticed Judith, smiled, and said something to the prisoner next to him.

  Cooper flung her hand off his arm and ran into the street. She called his name, but he was already pulling the sergeant out of line. The youthful guard at the head of the column and the two at the rear looked stunned. Cooper shook the astonished prisoner.

  “I saw you watching my wife. Keep your eyes and your filthy remarks to yourself.”

  Voices overlapped. Judith’s: “I’m sure the man didn’t—”

  The guard in charge: “Sir, you must not interfere—”

  The Irishman next to the sergeant: “Listen here, he never said a—”

  “I know otherwise.” Cooper was shrill. He jabbed the sergeant with his stick. “I saw it.”

  “Mister, you’re out of your skull.” The sergeant backed up hastily, bumping men behind. “Will someone help me get this crazy reb away from—”

  “I saw your expression. You said something filthy about her.” Cooper had to speak loudly because of the noise of the other prisoners protesting, the bells pealing.

  “Please, sir, stop,” pleaded the guard without effect.

  “I know you did, and by God, I’ll have an apology.”

  The sergeant had had enough. “You’ll get nothing but the back of my hand, you fucking traitor, you—”

  The descending stick shimmered in the gaslight. Judith cried out as Cooper struck the sergeant on top of the head, then on the right temple. The sergeant raised his arms to block the blows. “Get him off me!” Cooper dragged one of the Yank’s hands down and hit him twice more. The sergeant dropped to one knee, groggily shaking his head.

  The Irish prisoner tried to intervene. Cooper’s hat fell off as he rammed the cane ferrule into the man’s throat, then struck the sergeant again. The blow broke his stick. “Oh, my God, Cooper, stop.” Pulling at him, Judith saw spittle on his lips. He threw her off.

  He reversed the piece of cane still in his hand. He smashed the sergeant’s head with the silver knob. Blood showed in the prisoner’s hair. Judith again attempted to take hold of Cooper’s arm. He rammed it backward, snorting like an animal. His elbow bruised her breast. She heard obscenities he had never uttered in all the years she’d known him.

  A couple of prisoners joined the terrified guards in attempting to block Cooper’s renewed attack. Somehow he fought past them, locked both hands on the piece of stick, and raised it over his head. The sergeant, kneeling in the street, pressed a hand to his right eye. Blood flowed down his forehead and ran out between his fingers.

  “You killed my son,” Cooper screamed, landing one more blow. Finally, enough hands in blue sleeves caught hold of him and were able to restrain him, break his grip, tear the stick loose. The sergeant started to weep with shock. The prisoners and the guard in charge surrounded Cooper, dragging him back. He was pulling, kicking, biting, lunging side to side.

  “Let me go—he killed my boy—my son’s dead—he killed him.”

  The mass of men bore Cooper to the sidewalk as the eight steeple bells started tolling the hour. The sound reverberated in Cooper’s head as the Yanks loomed over him. One kicked him.

  “Please, let me through. He isn’t himself—”

  They paid no attention to Judith. She watched another prisoner step on Cooper’s outstretched hand. She beat and pushed at blue worsted, her desperation rising.

  “I’m his wife. Let me through!”

  Finally, they opened a way, and she fell on top of him, repeating his name, hoping it might calm him. He rolled his head from side to side, foam in the corners of his mouth. “Stop the bells—they’re too loud—I can’t stand it.”

  “What bells?”

  “In the steeple,” he shouted,
his gaze flying up past her shoulder. “There—there.”

  “The bells are gone, Cooper.” She started to shake his shoulders as he had shaken the sergeant. “They took the bells from St. Michael’s months ago. They sent them to Columbia so the Yankees would never get hold of them.”

  His mouth opened and his eyes, too, for a moment’s deranged recognition. He stared at her, then the steeple, then at her again. “But I hear them.” The cry was like a child’s. “I hear them, Judith—”

  Groping for her hand, he stiffened suddenly. His eyes closed, and he went limp. His head fell sideways, cheek resting on the sidewalk.

  “Cooper?”

  99

  ANDY THOUGHT A BRANCH had cracked until he heard the ball buzz past.

  The shot came from the thickets on his left, the side of the road away from the-Ashley. As he booted the mule with his worn field shoes, Andy tried to spot the person with the gun. The man stood up, well back in the shadowed undergrowth. He snugged a musket against the right shoulder of a uniform jacket of Union blue, worn open to show his black chest. The man’s left eye closed while the right slitted down, taking aim. Recognition of the swollen, fat face struck Andy like a ram.

  “Go, mule.” He kicked the animal again.

  The mule sped toward a bend in the road. Andy’s pass danced on the piece of twine around his neck. The gun boomed, but the aim was bad. The ball sliced off palmetto fronds ten yards behind the fleeing mule and rider. Moments later, both were safely past the bend.

  When Andy reached Mont Royal, he went straight to Meek’s office. He found the overseer shuffling bills with a bewildered air, as if wondering which two or three to choose for payment with the plantation’s dwindling supply of inflated currency. Dry-mouthed, Andy reported his worst news first.

  “He was aiming to kill me, Mr. Meek. And he had two muskets. He couldn’t have fired off the second round so fast if he had to reload.”

  Meek’s eyes, watery and dismayed, met Andy’s over the tops of his half spectacles. The job of trying to run the plantation with crops going to the government for less than full value and essential supplies scarce and the slaves disappearing one or two at a time had bowed his shoulders and furrowed his face. He looked ten years older than he had the day he arrived.