North and South: The North and South Trilogy (90 page)

“Darling, come here.”

He turned, a helpless, almost boyish expression on his face. He walked to the bed and sat down with the small of his back against her hip. His legs dangled over the side, not quite touching the floor.

Hating to see him hurting, she began to stroke his temple. “All of us behaved wretchedly today. Let Orry calm down for a week or so. You calm down, too. Then you’ll both feel like patching it up. You’ve been friends too long for it to go any other way.”

“I know, but he—”

Her fingers on his lips silenced the protest. “This afternoon you let a political fight come between you and the best friend you have in all the world. Do you realize how foolish that is? How ominous? How can this country survive if friends can’t rise above the quarrel? If men like you and Orry—decent, reasonable men—don’t find a solution to the problems, can you imagine the alternative? The future will be in the hands of the Southern fire eaters and the John Browns.”

The soft, soothing pressure of her fingers tamed his temper at last. “You’re right. Up to a point. I’m not sure words like
fight
and
quarrel
are truly adequate to describe what’s happening in this country.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“To me, words like
fight
and
quarrel
have a—well, almost a trivial sound. They suggest that people are falling out over”—a hand in the air helped him grope for the rest—“over hairstyles or the cut of a lapel. This argument runs much, much deeper. It goes all the way down to bedrock. Are you entitled to hold someone in bondage just because that person has black skin? Can you sunder the Union at will? I know my own answers to both of those questions. But not to this one: In the face of such issues, how can you stand up for what you believe and keep from losing a friend at the same time?”

Constance regarded him with loving eyes. “With patience,” she said. “Patience, and reason, and goodwill.”

He sighed. “I hope you’re right. I’m not sure.”

But he was grateful for her counsel and her help. To demonstrate that, he leaned against her bosom and gave her a long, tender kiss.

Soon the pressure of her lips increased. He slipped his hand between her back and the bolster. Arms around his neck, she kissed him with passion. Autumn wind blew the curtains as they made love, finding comfort in each other and temporary release from their confusion.

Afterward, lying pleasantly warm with their arms entwined, each was visited by the same unspoken thought: Patience, reason, and goodwill were fine, but were they sufficient? Perhaps the nation’s affairs were already past the point of rational control. Perhaps destiny was already in the hands of the fire eaters and the John Browns.

Yes, and the Virgilias, too.

S
IMON CAMERON’S BAROUCHE CREAKED
along Pennsylvania Avenue. Out for a bit of sightseeing with his mentor, Stanley basked in the pleasant sunshine.

The sound of Scala’s Marine Band playing “Listen to the Mocking Bird” slowly faded behind them. The composer of that piece of music had dedicated it to Harriet Lane, President Buchanan’s niece and hostess in the executive mansion. No doubt she and Old Buck—he was close to seventy now, an old-fashioned bachelor—were out on the lawn of President’s Park this minute, shaking hands with the audience at the band concert. The President was highly visible around Washington. Only yesterday, following a lavish dinner of oysters, terrapin, and French wine, Stanley had gone for a walk on this same avenue and bumped into the President, who was out for his daily one-hour stroll.

Made bold by the wine, Stanley had stepped up and spoken to Old Buck. Of course the two had met before, in Pennsylvania. The President not only recognized Stanley, but if a slight frostiness was any indication, he was quite aware of Stanley’s association with Boss Cameron. Thinking back to the encounter, Stanley remarked:

“I know the President’s no friend of yours, Simon, but he does come from our state. And when I met him again yesterday, I was frankly impressed with him.”

“Yes, but you have also told me you’re impressed with Washington.”

The sarcasm brought a flush to Stanley’s cheeks. He had said the wrong thing.

“Surely you can’t be impressed with that,” Cameron continued with a contemptuous gesture at the Capitol; its unfinished dome was topped by a crane and ugly scaffolding. Cameron sighed, shook his head. “How can I possibly make you a trusted associate if you continue to commit these errors in judgment? When will you learn there is nothing in this town worth a penny except the power?”

Stanley’s color deepened. He knew Cameron hadn’t befriended him because of his brains but only because he possessed certain other assets. Still, he hated to have his limitations discussed so openly or in such a caustic way.

But he mustn’t alienate his mentor. Momentous changes were in the wind, changes that could carry him and Isabel to this city and a position at the heart of the national government.

Cameron refused to let up. “Never let me hear you say you’re impressed with Old Buck. We’re Republicans now. The President is the enemy.”

Stanley nodded and forced a toadying smile, then tried to steer the conversation to a different tack. “What about next year? Do you think the Democrats will run Steve Douglas?”

“Hard to say. The party is badly split. Douglas alienated the entire South with his Freeport Doctrine.”

“Then we have a real chance to elect Seward.”

That very evening Stanley and Cameron were to attend a private reception for the senator at Kirkwood’s Hotel. The two men had traveled from Pennsylvania expressly to meet with Seward and with General Scott—gouty, opinionated, and, like the senator, smitten with presidential ambitions. Last night they had interviewed Scott for an hour; he had left his headquarters in New York just to see Cameron, another demonstration of the Pennsylvanian’s importance in Republican affairs. All this mingling with notables had an intoxicating effect on Stanley. He wanted to get back to Washington at all costs—as an insider.

Cameron reacted negatively to the mention of Seward. “After that remark about an irrepressible conflict, he can’t possibly win. Of course we mustn’t tell him so tonight, but the fact is the party will have to pick a man much less bellicose. One who offends the fewest people.”

Stanley blinked. “Who is that?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll tell you one thing”—a smile—”I’ll be the first to know his name. He won’t be nominated until I say so.”

Stanley knew the Boss wasn’t joking. Few Republican politicians could offer what he did—virtually absolute control of a large machine in an important state.

Cameron went on, “I intend to come out of the party convention with a job at Cabinet level. Any candidate who promises less won’t get my support. And when I move to this wretched town, my friends will move with me.”

Sunlight flashed in his eyes as he looked at Stanley. “I’m speaking of those friends who have proved their loyalty beyond all doubt.”

The message was clear, if familiar. Stanley asked, “How much do you need this time?”

“Ten thousand would help. Twenty would be ideal.”

“You have it.”

Beaming, Cameron leaned back on the plush cushions. “I knew I could count on you, Stanley. I’m sure there’s a job waiting here for a man of your intelligence.”

Billy rowed toward Bloody Island as the light faded. Brett sat at the bow facing him, a parasol canted over her shoulder. He could hardly keep his eyes away from her or control a physical reaction to her presence.

He kept reminding himself that her brother expected him to behave like a gentleman. Not an easy task, given his months of loneliness out here and the heart-stopping beauty he saw in the tilt of her head and the curve of her bosom.

After nearly a week of traveling, Brett and Orry had arrived in St. Louis the day before yesterday. Almost at once, Brett told him about the quarrel at Lehigh Station. She said Virgilia had caused it, which disgusted Billy but didn’t surprise him. He and his sister had never been close. He often found it hard to believe she was a blood relation.

So far, Orry had chaperoned the young people in a very relaxed manner. On two previous occasions he had left them alone for over an hour, permitting them to wander where they would in the raw riverside town. Today, pleading a stomach upset caused by catfish he’d eaten at noon, he had remained at the hotel while Billy took Brett across the Mississippi on the ferry, then rented the rowboat. He wanted her to see what had kept him busy all these months.

Orry was certainly treating him politely and with consideration, Billy thought as the boat nosed through shallow water to the long shoal. Did that mean he had changed his mind about the match? Billy hoped so.

The boat crunched on the graveled bottom. Billy jumped out. Standing ankle-deep in the river, he extended his arms.

“Jump. You won’t get wet.” But he hadn’t beached the rowboat as firmly as he thought. When she stood up, the motion drove the boat away from him. “Wait, let me catch the bow line,” he exclaimed.

Too late. She jumped. He tried to catch her, but he was off balance. Down they went, the huge splash scattering dozens of small silvery fish.

“Oh, Lord,” she said in disgust. They sat on their rumps in five inches of water. Suddenly both of them started to laugh.

He helped her up. Her bodice clung to her body, revealing the tips of her breasts through layers of wet fabric. She shook a shower of droplets from her parasol and giggled.

“Your uniform’s a sight. I suppose I don’t look much better.”

“Well,” he replied in a grave way, “at least now you’ll remember your visit to St. Louis.”

“How could I forget St. Louis when you’re here?”

Said lightly, it nevertheless carried an undertone of seriousness.

Their eyes held. He pressed toward her through the shallows, circled her waist with both hands, and pulled her to him. Her wet, sweet mouth roused him all the more. Her lips parted. She pressed herself close.

Presently he whispered, “For a proper Southern girl, you don’t worry much about appearances. Here we are kissing in broad daylight—”

“I don’t care if the whole state of Illinois sees us. I love you, Billy. I’ll never love anyone el—” Over his shoulder she noticed something that instantly banished romance. “The boat!”

He had to wade into deep water to retrieve it. He pulled it well up on shore and anchored the bow line under a heavy rock. He slapped his wet cap against his trousers as he rejoined her, glad for the distraction the boat had provided. It had helped him calm down a little.

He took her hand as they walked toward the cottonwoods. Immediately, he felt a renewed pressure in his groin. The enforced celibacy was just too damn much. He glanced at Brett, and her eyes seemed to be saying the same thing.

He showed her the two rows of pilings at the upper end of the wooded shoal. The forty-foot space between the rows had been refilled with sand and stone, the outer faces of the dike built up again with ramparts of brush.

It had been a hard, dirty job. Billy had labored at it all summer, positioning the barges, sinking new pilings, dumping stone, swatting insects, and dealing with the quirks and quarrels of his hired civilian crew. Most of the time he had worked without his shirt. His back had repeatedly reddened and blistered, but now his skin was a dark nut color, the repairs were done, and he could show them off with pride.

“Ice damaged the dike at the south end of the shoal, too. We’ve been repairing that. We’ll be finished in another two or three weeks.”

“Then what will happen?”

“I’ll be transferred.”

“Where?”

“Wherever they need engineers. One of my workmen asked why I had to spend four years at West Point to learn how to load rocks on a barge. I was hanged if I knew the answer. But it’s good, useful work, and I’ve enjoyed it. I’ll be glad to do the same kind of job somewhere else.”

She nodded. They were strolling arm in arm through the rustling cottonwoods. The sky had turned a brilliant deep blue; Billy always thought of it as the color of October. Some cumulus clouds drifted overhead. The sinking sun tinted them hot orange. The contrast with the sky was striking and, to his way of thinking, romantic.

“I don’t care where Í go,” he resumed, “so long as I’m near you.” He stopped, turned her toward him, held her forearms. “I want to marry you, Brett. Soon.”

“I feel the same way. It seems like we’ve been waiting a century. Do you know I’m twenty-one already?”

“I’d forgotten. Why, you’re practically ancient.”

Despite the joke, he too had been aware of his age lately. At twenty-four, a man was ready for responsibilities. “I can take care of you properly now. I’ve been saving half my pay every month, so—” He cleared his throat. “What would you think if I spoke to Orry while you’re both here?”

She hugged him. “Oh, please do.”

“I want to be sure I approach him at the right moment—”

She gave him a gentle smile. “You’re always so cautious and careful. I don’t think there will ever be a right moment anymore. The world’s in such turmoil—”

“But I’m not certain Orry likes me. What if I speak to him and he’s still angry with George?”

“He’s all over that.” Again she crushed against him, whispering, “I’ll go out of my mind if we have to wait much longer.”

“So will I.”

“Talk to him tomorrow. Or tonight!”

“All right. I’ll do it as soon as I can, I promise.”

It had a firm, emphatic sound that concealed his inner doubt. He felt like a general who had finally committed his troops to battle. They kissed again while the orange clouds floated above the Mississippi in a sky so lovely it seemed to deny even the possibility of trouble in the world.

Orry found St. Louis a lively and energetic place but ill-mannered, bumptious. Raw as the unpainted lumber of many of its buildings. He felt very much the elegant South Carolinian as he and Billy strolled along the riverfront on the morning following Billy’s trip to Bloody Island.

Orry was carrying an expensive walnut cane he had just bought as a souvenir of his visit. He swung the cane forward in a little circle, then in a circle the other way. They passed a dozen noisy Negro stevedores loading crates on a barge. In mid-channel a huge sternwheeler churned northward toward Des Moines. Passengers lined the rails, waving. Orry watched the vessel with admiring eyes; he had fallen in love with steamboats, which seemed to him like elegant floating palaces.