by Джон Джейкс
"The war isn't going well for the Yankees, but neither is it going well for our side. The toll in Maryland was dreadful."
And lives were not the only loss. When reports of the battle reached Europe, the outcome was construed as a defeat for the Confederacy. Despite false cheer and pretense to the contrary, those in Bulloch's section knew the silent truth of Sharpsburg. The South would never gain diplomatic recognition.
"I'm wanted in the Navy Department," he told her. "Mallory needs help and evidently believes I'm the one to provide it. James has matters well in hand here, and I know he sent a favorable report on my work after we launched Alabama."
Bulloch had officially commended Cooper's clumsy but effective defensive action on the pier. Cooper had stayed aboard the ship until the middle of August, when she was joined in the remote Bay of Angra, on the island of Terceira in the Azores, by two other vessels. One was Agrippina, a bark that Bulloch had purchased; aboard were a hundred-pound Blakely rifle, an eight-inch smoothbore, six thirty-two pounders, ammunition, coal, and enough supplies for an extended cruise. Bahama brought twenty-five Confederate seamen and Captain Semmes. The new ship was armed, coaled, commissioned, and christened, and Cooper felt another unexpected thrill of pride when the small band blared "Dixie's Land" in the hot tropical afternoon.
The secret mission completed, he returned to Liverpool by passenger steamer. Judith was grumpy the day he told her about his feelings during the ceremony. One of their rare quarrels developed. How could he feel pride in a cause he had once derided? Caustically, he replied that she would have to forgive his lack of perfection. The statements and counterstatements rapidly grew incoherent. It took them a day to patch things up.
Now she asked softly, "How do you feel about Secretary Mallory's request?"
He pressed his shoulder to hers. The wind was cold; the stars shone; the orange horizon-glow was nearly gone. "I'll miss this old town, but I've no choice. I must go."
"How quickly?"
"As soon as I finish a couple of current projects. I would hazard that we'd be on our way by the end of the year."
She lifted his arm and placed it around her shoulders for warmth and because she loved his touch. "I worry about a winter crossing."
What worried him more was the last leg of the trip, the run from Hamilton or Nassau through the blockading squadron. But he refused to upset her by saying it aloud. Instead, he sought to reassure her with a squeeze, a press of his lips to her cold cheek, a murmur.
"As long as the four of us are together, we'll be fine. Together we can withstand anything."
She agreed, then pondered a moment. "I do wonder what your father would say if he saw you so devoted to the South."
He hoped they wouldn't argue again. He answered cautiously. "He'd say I wasn't the son he raised. He'd say I've changed, but so have we all."
"Only in some respects. I loathe slavery as much as I ever did."
"You know I feel the same way. When we win our independence, it will wither and die naturally."
"Independence? Cooper, the cause is lost."
"Don't say that."
"But it is. You know it in your heart. You talked of resources in the North, and the lack of them in the South, long before this horrible war started. You did it the first day we met."
"I know, but — I can't admit defeat, Judith. If I do, why should we go home? Why should I take any risks at all? Yet I must take them — The South's my native land. Yours, too."
She shook her head. "I left it, Cooper. It's mine because it's yours, that's all. The war is wrong, the cause too — Why should you or Bulloch or anyone keep fighting?"
The lamplight fell on her face, so beautiful to him, so beloved. For the first time, sitting there, he admitted her to the small inner chamber where he kept the truth she had already identified, the truth made manifest by the dispatches about Sharpsburg. "We must fight for the best conclusion we can get. A negotiated peace." "You think it's worth going home to do that?" He nodded.
"All right, my dearest. Kiss me, and we will." A gust set leaves chuckling around their legs as they embraced. They were still kissing when a constable coughed and walked by twirling his truncheon. They separated with muddled, chagrined looks. Since Judith wore gloves, the disapproving officer couldn't see her rings. He probably thought she was misbehaving with a lover. It made her giggle as they hurried back across the square. Full dark had come. It would be good to be inside.
In the gaslit foyer, Cooper paled and pointed to a drop of blood on the tile floor. "Good God, look."
Her eyes rounded. "Judah?"
Marie-Louise popped her blonde head out of the parlor. "He's hurt, Mama."
Cooper flew up the stairs, his belly tied up like a sailor's knot, his head hammering, his palms damp. Had his son fallen into the hands of some thief or molester? The slightest threat to either of his children was like a barbed hook in his flesh. When they were ill, he stayed up with them all night, every night, until the danger passed. He ran toward the half-open door of the boy's room. "Judah!"
He thrust the door open. Judah lay on the bed, clutching his middle. His jacket was ripped, his cheek bruised, his nose bloodied.
Cooper ran to the bed, sat, started to take his son in his arms but refrained. Judah was eleven and deemed such contact sissified. "Son — what happened?"
"I ran into some Toxteth dock boys. They wanted my money, and when I said I hadn't any, they swarmed on me. I'm all right." He made the subdued declaration with evident pride.
"You defended yourself —?"
"Best I could, Pa. There were five of them."
Uncontrollably, he touched Judah's brow, brushed some hair back, fighting his own trembling. Judith's shadow fell over his sleeve. "He's all right," Cooper said as the fear began to run out of him like an ebbing tide.
59
In the occupied city of New Orleans, the weather was warm that morning. So was Colonel Elkanah Bent's emotional temperature. It matched that of the local citizens with whom he shared the corner of Chartres and Canal streets, watching the tangible evidence of General Ben Butler's radicalism.
The limpid air smelled as it always did, predominantly of coffee but laced with the Mississippi and the toilet water of gentlemen who had to be out because they were in commerce; gentlemen who had lived off cotton once and were perhaps doing so again, less covertly every day. Those of the better classes were still indoors. Perhaps they had received a hint of what they might see if they ventured out. Most on the corner had been caught there by chance, like Bent, though undoubtedly one or two watched by choice, to keep hatred stoked.
Fatter than ever and puffing a cigar, Bent was fully as angry as the civilians, though he dared not show it. The drums tapped, the fifes shrilled, and with limp colors preceding them, the First Louisiana Native Guards came parading up Canal.
Major General Butler had raised the regiment in late summer in the wake of other outrages, which included hanging Mumford, the man who dared to pull down an American flag from the mint building, and an order of May 15 stating that women who spoke or gestured to Union soldiers in an insulting manner would be arrested and treated as prostitutes.
Those were schoolboy pranks compared to this, Bent thought. He found the mere existence of the guards, officially mustered on September 27, both unbelievable and repulsive. He pitied the officers chosen to command this regiment of ex-cotton pickers and stevedores.
The town was abuzz with rumors generated by aspects of the Butler style. The Yankee general who pillaged private homes for salable silver pieces would be replaced because of such crimes against the civilian population. Lincoln would not allow the guards to serve in the federal army, wanting nothing to upset the delicate potentialities — the chance that a wayward sister might return — before the fateful proclamation deadline. Bent had heard those and many more.
The Negro regiment wasn't a rumor; it was right in front of him — yellow faces, tan faces, sepia and blue-ebony faces. How they grinned and roll
ed their eyes as they pranced past their old oppressors, who were standing still as statues, paralyzed by disbelief and disdain.
The fifes struck up the "Battle Hymn" to heighten the insult. The black unit, one of the first in the army, tramped on toward the river. Bent flipped his cigar into the street. The sight was enough to turn a man into a Southerner — a breed he had always hated but now regarded with a deepening sympathy.
Bent's hands began to itch as he thought of a glass of spirits. Too early. Much too early. But he couldn't banish the desire, to which he gave in with increasing frequency these days. He had no friends among his fellow officers in the occupying army; few even spoke to him except in the line of duty. He cautioned himself not to give in to the temptation, knowing full well he would. Only a drink, or several, would relieve his misery.
Pittsburg Landing had sent his life spiraling downward. He had reached Butler's headquarters in New Orleans after a difficult journey to the East Coast and a steamer voyage around the tip of Florida to the reopened port. After a two-minute meeting with the cockeyed little politician from Massachusetts, Bent found himself attached to the provost's department. The duty was ideal, because it allowed him to give orders to civilians as well as soldiers.
Bent had been in New Orleans before. He enjoyed the city's cultured atmosphere and the delights it offered to gentlemen with money. It was in the bordellos of the town that he had gained a certain limited passion for equality; he would pay a high price to fornicate with a nigger girl, especially a very young one. He had enjoyed that experience last night.
He peered down the street after the regiment — the Corps d'Afrique, the presumptuous darkies styled themselves. White officers had to be coaxed, bribed with brevets, or threatened with a general court before they would accept command of so much as one company of a new Negro regiment — of which there were several.
What a remarkable about-face General Butler had done in organizing them. Initially he had declared himself against the idea. In August he changed his mind, persuaded, it was said, by his wife, his friend Secretary Chase, and perhaps by belated realization that the appearance of black regiments would make local whites apoplectic. At first Butler said he would recruit only the semitrained members of a black unit formed to defend the city before it fell. He reversed himself on that, too, and was soon signing up plantation runaways.
Bent started toward the old square, encountering unfriendly faces on the walks shaded by charming iron balconies. Ah, but the civilians did step aside for him. Indeed they did.
His thoughts drifted to the brothels again. There was one house he particularly wanted to visit at an opportune moment. He had chanced on the place before the war, on his way back from the hellish duty in Texas. In the madam's quarters there hung many fine paintings, including a portrait of a woman connected with the Main family in some way he did not as yet understand. The connection itself was certain. In Texas, in Charles Main's quarters, he had seen a photograph of a woman with virtually identical features.
What stimulated Bent's imagination were facts conveyed to him by the owner of the bordello, Madame Conti. The painting depicted a quadroon who had once worked in the establishment. In other words, a nigger whore.
That painting was one of the few positive aspects of Bent's current exile. He believed it to be a weapon he could use eventually against the Mains. He never forgot or abandoned his desire to harm members of that family; only set it aside periodically because events forced him. He knew the bordello was still operating under Madame Conti's management. He assumed the painting was still there.
By the time he reached Bienville, he knew he must have a drink soon. Just then he noticed a well-dressed white woman alighting from a barouche beyond the intersection of narrow streets. She dismissed the driver and, like Bent, walked in the direction of the cathedral. Two black soldiers were coming the other way, laughing and jostling each other. Yellow stripes on light blue breeches showed they belonged to the cavalry Ben Butler had raised.
The woman stopped. So did the soldiers, blocking the walk. Bent saw the woman's hat bob as she said something. The soldiers replied with laughter. Bent drew his dress saber and lumbered across Bienville.
"You men stand aside."
They didn't.
"I gave you a direct order. Step into the street and let this lady pass."
They continued to block the walk. It was a kind of disobedience not unknown to him, but it angered him more than usual because of their color. They wouldn't have dared defy him if it weren't for Butler and Old Abe. In the wake of the President's proclamation, the darkies thought they ruled the earth.
The tableau held. Bent heard one of the troopers mutter something about white officers, and both eyed him in a speculative way. Foolish of him to interfere with such brutes. Suppose they attacked him?
Then he saw his salvation: three white soldiers coming into sight down at the corner of Conti. The sergeant wore a side arm. Bent waved his sword. "Sergeant! Come here this instant."
The trio hurried. Bent identified himself. "Take these two insubordinate rascals to the provost, and I'll follow to charge them." His breathing slowed; he could ooze contempt on the niggers. "If you hope to be part of the Union Army, gentlemen, you must behave like civilized human beings, not apes. Dismissed, Sergeant."
The noncom drew his revolver. He and his men began to enjoy their assignment. They poked the two blacks and kicked their shins. The cavalrymen looked frightened.
As well they might, Bent thought. They would be tied by their thumbs, with stout cord, to a suitable beam or limb and left to hang with their toes just touching the ground. An hour of it was standard punishment in cases of insubordination. For them he would order three or four hours.
"Colonel?"
He swept off his hat; the woman was middle-aged, attractive. "Ma'am? I do apologize for the way those — soldiers harassed you."
"I am most grateful for your intervention." Her accent was that of the city, melodious and warm. "I trust you won't take offense if I remark that you are not typical of members of the army of occupation. Indeed, I would find it more natural for a man of your sensibilities to be wearing gray. Thank you again. Good day."
Overwhelmed, he muttered, "Good day," as she swept into a doorway that was her destination.
It had been so long since anyone had complimented him about anything that he flew along toward the cathedral square in a euphoric state. Perhaps the woman was right. Changing sides was unthinkable, of course, but her insight couldn't be faulted. Perhaps his lifelong loathing for Southerners was misguided. It might be that in certain ways he was more reb than Yank. Pity to learn it too late.
Under the looming facade of St. Louis Cathedral, Bent halted suddenly, attention arrested by two men in the square. One was the commanding general's brother, an army officer much in evidence in New Orleans lately. The other —
He struggled momentarily, then got it. Stanley Hazard. Bent had seen him last at Willard's over a year ago. What was he doing here?
He hurried on, his craving for drink intense. The sudden sight of Stanley reminded him of George and Orry. Soon old litanies were resounding in his head. He must not forget either family or how much he wanted to repay them. Before he left New Orleans, he had to take possession of the portrait in the bordello.
The table linen was blinding, the silver heavy. The gulf oysters were succulent, the champagne French and cold as January. Most of the liveried waiters had woolly white heads. They bent over the diners with such attention and deference that Stanley could almost imagine Abe and his freedom proclamation were fantasies.
The polite, reserved gentleman sharing the table wore the oak leaves and cuff braids of a colonel, though the source of that rank was a mystery to Stanley and many others. He had done some investigation before leaving Washington. In one group of reports, the officer was consistently called Captain Butler, and it was the captain whose appointment as a commissary the Senate had rejected last winter.
Ot
her reports filed in the War Department referred to him as Colonel Butler, though most of these came from his brother. In other words, in the mysterious ways of wartime, when the gentleman got a job on his brother's staff, he underwent a rapid rise in rank. Whether the promotions were brevets or even legal hardly mattered. Nothing mattered but the man's influence and power. He had plenty of each, so Stanley gladly overlooked the irregularities.
Stanley watched his champagne consumption; difficult negotiation lay ahead. While they ate they kept to safe topics: the question of the length of the war; the question of whether McClellan would be replaced and by whom. On the latter, Stanley knew the answers — yes; Burnside — but feigned ignorance.
Butler asked about his journey. "Oh, it was fine. Sea air is salubrious." He hadn't smelled much of it. He had stayed in his bunk for most of the voyage, rising only to vomit into a bucket. But it was important that business adversaries think him competent in every respect — another of Isabel's little lessons.
"Well, sir" — Stanley's guest leaned back — "a fine repast, and I thank you for it. Since your visit is so short, perhaps we'd better get down to it."
"Happily, Colonel. For background, I might tell you that I own the manufacturing firm of Lashbrook's of Lynn, Massachusetts."
"Army footwear," Colonel Andrew Butler said with a nod. A little shiver chased along beneath Stanley's shirt. The man knew all about him.
He raised his napkin to mop perspiration from his lip. He leaned forward into the shadow of a hanging fern basket. "This is a rather public place. Should we —?"
"No, we're perfectly all right here." Butler touched a match to a large Havana. "Similar, ah, arrangements are being concluded at half the tables in this restaurant. Though none is on the scale of what you propose. Please continue."
Stanley got up his nerve and plunged. "I understand there is a desperate need for shoes."
"Desperate," Butler murmured, blowing smoke.
"In the North, cotton is badly needed."
