by John Jakes
Heaven and Hell
John Jakes
For all my friends at HBJ
With the exception of historical figures, all characters in this novel are fictitious, and any resemblance to living persons, present or past, is coincidental.
The loss of heaven
is the greatest
pain in hell
CALDERÓN DE LA BARCA
Contents
Prologue: The Grand Review, 1865
Book One: Lost Causes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Book Two: A Winter Count
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Book Three: Banditti
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Book Four: The Year of the Locust
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Book Five: Washita
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Book Six: The Hanging Road
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Book Seven: Crossing Jordan
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Epilogue: The Plain, 1993
Afterword
A Biography of John Jakes
Prologue:
The Grand Review
1865
… SAYING, PEACE, PEACE; WHEN there is no peace.
JEREMIAH 6:14, 8:11
RAIN FELL ON WASHINGTON through the night. Shortly before daybreak on May twenty-third, a Tuesday, George Hazard woke in his suite at Willard’s Hotel. He rested a hand on the warm shoulder of his wife, Constance. He listened.
No more rain.
That absence of sound was a good omen for this day of celebration. A new era began this morning, an era of peace, with the Union saved.
Why, then, did he feel a sense of impending misfortune?
George slipped out of bed. His flannel nightshirt bobbed around his hairy calves as he stole from the room. George was forty-one now, a stocky, strong-shouldered man whose West Point classmates had nicknamed him Stump because of his build and his less-than-average height. Gray slashed his dark hair and the neat beard he’d kept, as many had, to show he had served in the army.
He padded into the parlor, which was strewn with newspapers and periodicals he’d been too tired to pick up last night. He began to gather them and put them in a pile, taking care to be as quiet as possible. In the second and third bedrooms, his children were asleep. William Hazard III had turned sixteen in January. Patricia would be that age by the end of the year. George’s younger brother, Billy, and his wife, Brett, occupied a fourth bedroom. Billy would march in today’s parade, but he’d gotten permission to spend the night away from the engineers’ camp at Fort Berry.
The papers and periodicals seemed to taunt George for his sense of foreboding. The New York Times, the Tribune, the Washington Star, the most recent issue of the Army and Navy Journal all sounded the same triumphant note. As he created the neat pile on a side table, the phrases leaped up:
Though our gigantic war is but a few days over, we have already begun the disbandment of the great Army of the Union …
They crushed the Rebellion, saved the Union, and won for themselves, and for us, a country …
The War Department has ordered to be printed six hundred thousand blank discharges on parchment paper …
Our self-reliant republic disbands its armies, sends home its faithful soldiers, closes its recruiting tents, stops its contracts for material, and prepares to abandon the gloomy path of war for the broad and shining highway of peace …
Today and tomorrow were to be celebrations of that: a Grand Review of Grant’s Army of the Potomac and Uncle Billy Sherman’s roughneck Army of the West. Grant’s men would march today; Sherman’s coarser, tougher troops, tomorrow. Sherman’s Westerners sneered at Grant’s Easterners as “paper collars.” Perhaps the Westerners would parade the cows and goats, mules and fighting cocks they’d brought to their camps along the Potomac.
Not all of the men who went to war would march. Some would lie forever hidden from loved ones, like George’s dearest friend, Orry. George and Orry had met as plebes at West Point in 1842. They had soldiered together in Mexico, and had preserved their friendship even after Fort Sumter surrendered and their separate loyalties took them to different sides in the conflict. But then, in the closing days, Orry met death at Petersburg. Not in battle; he fell victim to the stupid, needless, vengeful bullet of a wounded Union soldier he was trying to help.
Some of the young men made old by the war still tramped the roads of the South, going home to poverty and a land wasted by hunger and the fires of conquering battalions. Some still rode northbound trains, maimed in body and spirit by their time in the sinks that passed for rebel prisons. Some from the Confederacy had vanished into Mexico, into the army of the khedive of Egypt, or to the West, trying to forget the invisible wounds they bore. Orry’s young cousin Charles had chosen the third path.
Others had ended the war steeped in ignominy. Chief among them was Jeff Davis, run to earth near Irwinville, Georgia. Many Northern papers said he’d tried to elude capture by wearing a dress. Whatever the truth, for certain elements in the North prison wasn’t enough for Davis. They wanted a hang rope.
George lit one of his expensive Cuban cigars and crossed to the windows overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. The suite offered a fine view of the day’s parade route, but he had special tickets for a reviewing stand directly across from the President’s. With care, he raised a window.
The sky was cloudless. He leaned out to let the cigar smoke blow away and noticed all the patriotic bunting on the three- and four-story buildings fronting the avenue. Brighter decorations were at last replacing the funeral crepe that had hung everywhere after Lincoln’s murder.
A scarlet band of light above the Potomac River basin marked the horizon. Vehicles, horsemen, and pedestrians were beginning to move on the muddy avenue below. George watched a black family—parents, five children—hurry in the direction of President’s Park. They had more than the en
d of the war to celebrate. They had the Thirteenth Amendment, forever abolishing slavery; the states had only to ratify it to make it law.
A clearing sky, a display of red, white, and blue, no more rain—with such favorable portents, why did his feeling of foreboding persist?
It was the families, he decided, the Mains and the Hazards. They had survived the war, but they were mangled. Virgilia, his sister, was lost to the rest of the family, self-exiled by her own extremism. It was particularly saddening because Virgilia was right here in Washington, although George didn’t know where she lived.
Then there was his older brother, Stanley, an incompetent man who had piled up an unconscionable amount of money through war profiteering. Despite his success—or perhaps because of it—Stanley was a drunkard.
Matters were no better for the Mains. Orry’s sister Ashton had vanished out in the West after being involved in an unsuccessful plot to overthrow and replace the Davis government with one that was more extreme. Orry’s brother, Cooper, who had worked in Liverpool for the Confederate Navy Department, had lost his only son, Judah, when their homebound ship was sunk off Fort Fisher by a Union blockade squadron.
And there was his best friend’s widow, Madeline, facing the struggle to rebuild her life and her burned-out plantation on the Ashley River, near Charleston. George had given her a letter of credit for forty thousand dollars, drawn on the bank in which he owned a majority interest. He’d hoped she would ask for more; most of the initial sum was needed for interest on two mortgages and to pay federal taxes and prevent confiscation of the property by Treasury agents already invading the South. But Madeline had not asked, and it worried him.
Even at this early hour, the horse-and-wagon traffic on the avenue was heavy. It was a momentous day and, if he could believe the sky and the soft breeze, it would be a beautiful one. Then why, even after isolating his anxieties about the two families, could he not banish the feeling of impending trouble?
The Hazards ate a quick breakfast. Brett looked particularly happy and excited, George thought with a certain envy. In a few weeks, Billy planned to resign his commission. Then the two of them would board a ship for San Francisco. They’d never seen California, but descriptions of the climate, the country, and its opportunities attracted them. Billy wanted to start his own civil engineering firm. Like his friend Charles Main, with whom he’d attended West Point—both inspired by the example of George and Orry—he wanted to go far from the scarred fields where American had fought American.
The couple needed to travel soon. Brett was carrying their first child. Billy had told this to George privately; decency dictated that a pregnancy never be discussed, even by family members. When a woman neared her term and her stomach bulged, people pretended not to notice. If a second child arrived, parents often told their firstborn that the doctor brought the baby in a bottle. George and Constance observed most of the proprieties, even many that were silly, but they had never stooped to the bottle story.
The family reached the special reviewing section by eight-fifteen. They took seats among reporters, congressmen, Supreme Court justices, senior army and navy officers. To their left, the avenue jogged around the Treasury Building at Fifteenth Street; the jog hid the long rise of the street up to the Capitol.
To their right, for blocks into the distance, people jammed behind barricades, hung from windows and roof peaks, sat on sagging tree limbs. Directly opposite stood the covered pavilion for President Johnson’s party, which would include Generals Grant and Sheridan and Stanley Hazard’s employer, Secretary of War Stanton. Along the pavilion’s front roof line, among bunting swags and evergreen sprays, hung banners painted with the names of Union victories: Atlanta and Antietam, Gettysburg and Spotsylvania, and more.
By quarter to nine there was still no sign of the President. The blunt-featured Chief Executive sailed in a sea of gossip these days. People said he lacked tact, drank heavily. And he was common—well, that was true. Johnson, a tailor, later senator, was the self-educated son of a Tennessee tavern porter, but he did not have the skills that had enabled Lincoln to turn his rustic background into a personal advantage. George had met Johnson. He found him a brusque, opinionated man with an almost religious reverence for the Constitution. That alone would put him at odds with the Radical Republicans, who wanted to expand interpretation of the Constitution to suit their vision of society.
George agreed with many Radical positions, including equal rights and the franchise for eligible males of both races. But frequently he found Radical motives and tactics repugnant. Many of the Radicals made no secret of their intent to use black voters to make the Republicans the majority party, upsetting the traditional Democratic dominance of the country. The Radicals displayed a vicious animosity toward those they had conquered, as well as any others they deemed ideologically impure.
President Johnson and the Radicals were locked in an increasingly vindictive struggle for control of reconstruction of the Union. It was not a new quarrel. In 1862, Lincoln had proposed his Louisiana Plan, later amplifying it to allow for readmission of any seceded state in which a “tangible nucleus” of voters—only ten percent of those qualified to vote in 1860—took a loyalty oath and organized a pro-Union government.
In July of 1864, the Radical Republicans had retaliated with a bill written by Senator Ben Wade, of Ohio, and Representative Henry Davis, of Maryland. It outlined a much harsher reconstruction plan, which included a provision for military rule of the defeated Confederacy. The bill fixed control of reconstruction in the Congress. Early in 1865, Tennessee had formed a government under the Lincoln plan, headed by a Whig Unionist named Brownlow. The Radicals in Congress refused to seat elected representatives of that government.
Andrew Johnson had accused Jefferson Davis of acting to “inspire” and “procure” the assassination at Ford’s Theatre. He made the obligatory harsh statements about the South, but he also insisted that he would carry out Lincoln’s moderate program. Lately, George had heard that Johnson intended to implement the program by means of executive orders during the summer and fall. Since Congress had adjourned and was not scheduled to reconvene until late in the year, and since Johnson certainly wouldn’t call a special session, the Radicals would be thwarted.
So the political wind carried word of coming Radical reprisals. One of George’s missions in Washington was to speak to a powerful Pennsylvania politician, to state his views on the situation. He donated enough to the party each year to feel entitled to do so. He might even do some good.
“Papa, there’s Aunt Isabel,” said Patricia from behind him.
George saw Stanley’s wife waving from the presidential stand. He grimaced and returned the wave. “She wanted us to be sure and see her.”
Brett smiled. Constance patted his hand. “Now, George, don’t be spiteful. You wouldn’t trade places with Stanley.”
George shrugged and continued scanning the crowd on his side of the street, searching for the congressman from his state whom he wanted to corner. While he was occupied, Constance reached into her reticule for a piece of hard candy. Her red hair shone where it curled from beneath a fashionable straw bonnet. She still possessed a pale Irish loveliness, but she’d gained thirty pounds since her marriage, at the end of the Mexican War. George said he didn’t mind; he considered the weight a sign of contentment.
Promptly at nine, a cannon boomed off by the Capitol. In a few minutes, the Hazards heard a distant brass band playing “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” Then they heard unseen thousands cheering parade units beyond the jog in the avenue. Soon the first marchers rounded the corner by the Treasury, and everyone leaped up to clap and hurrah.
Scholarly General George Meade led the parade, riding to the presidential pavilion amid an ovation. Small boys hanging from the trees behind it leaned out to clap and nearly fell. Meade saluted the dignitaries with his saber—neither Grant nor Johnson had yet arrived—then handed his horse to a corporal and went to sit with them.
&
nbsp; Women cheered, men wept openly, a chorus of young schoolgirls sang and showered the street with bouquets and nosegays. The sun struck white fire from the alabaster of the Capitol dome as General Wesley Merritt led the Third Division into sight. The regular commander, Little Phil Sheridan, was already en route to duty on the Gulf of Mexico. When the Third appeared, even William, who was afflicted with adolescent disdain for nearly everything, jumped up and whistled and clapped.
Sixteen abreast in a column of platoons, sabers flashing in the sunshine, Sheridan’s cavalry passed. The troopers had a trim, freshly barbered look and showed few signs of war-weariness. Many of them had stuck small bunches of daisies or violets into the muzzles of the carbines carried behind them on shoulder slings.
Each rank dipped its steel to the Chief Executive, who had finally entered the pavilion with General Grant, looking apologetic. George heard a woman several rows behind wonder aloud whether Johnson was already drunk.
Dust clouds rose. The smell of horse droppings ripened. Then, from Fifteenth Street, George heard a chant. “Custer! Custer! Custer! …”
And there he came, on his fine high-stepping bay, Don Juan: the “Boy General”—shoulder-length ringlets, yellow with a reddish patina, flushed face, scarlet neckerchief, golden spurs, broad-brimmed hat doffed to acknowledge the chanting of his name. Few Union officers had so captured the fancy of public and press. George Armstrong Custer had been last in his class at West Point, a brigadier at twenty-three, a major general at twenty-four. Twelve horses had been shot from under him. He was fearless or reckless, depending on your view. It was said that he wanted to be president after Ulysses Grant ran for the office. If he did want that—if the famed “Custer’s luck” stayed with him and the public didn’t forget him—he’d probably get what he wanted.
The Boy General led his troop of red-scarfed cavalrymen while his regimental band blared “Garry Owen.” The schoolgirls surged up, ready to sing again. They threw flowers. Near the presidential stand, Custer stretched out his gauntlet to catch one. The sudden move spooked the bay. It bolted.
George glimpsed Custer’s furious face as the bay raced toward Seventeenth. When Custer regained control of Don Juan, it was impossible for him to turn back against the tide of men and horses to salute Johnson. Enraged, he rode on.
