Authors: John Jakes
On Secret Service (31 page)
I
NSURRECTION
December 1862
When Margaret was growing up in Virginia, she played with a favorite doll, made of cloth filled with straw. The smiling mammy doll had a crazy-quilt apron whose array of colors and patterns she found fascinating. For days after Donal punished her, the mirror reflected the same kind of patchwork coloration on Margaret's battered and swollen face.
Sometime during that dreadful night, Eudora had slipped out of the house with her belongings, evidently preferring the wrath of soldiers enforcing the curfew to a confrontation with Margaret. Eudora's brother, Morris, denied knowing anything but the obvious. “She run off, nothin' more to say.” Regardless of how many questions Margaret asked, the answers were essentially the same. “She run off. I don' know where. We never was close.” During these exchanges Morris didn't raise his eyes to look at Margaret. She soon gave up.
Donal again treated her courteously. He said nothing about her bruised face or the reason for it. He absented himself frequently from Church Hill, often staying away all night. He no longer came to her room, for which she was thankful.
Margaret didn't dwell on the state of her marriage. To do so was to insure another long bout of weeping, a pointless indulgence since it always led to the same truth: She had accepted Donal's proposal willingly. Only she was to blame for what had resulted.
She tried to suppress thoughts of Lon Price but found it impossible. She bought some books, wrapped them, and drove the buggy to Libby Prison one stormy afternoon, presuming Lon was still locked up inside. She handed the books to the ill-mannered guard at the entrance with small hope that Lon would receive them. With sleet flying in her face and stinging her eyes, she drove away up Canal Street, turning uphill at Eighteenth past Castle Thunder, another prison with an even worse reputation. She hardly glanced at the grimy brick buildings, old tobacco factories, now enclosed by a high board fence.
It snowed heavily and often in early December. The fluffy whiteness, so pretty as it drifted down, quickly turned to ugly brown slush. People were depressed, sullen. Enthusiasm for Christmas was dampened by shortages, and by the prospect of Lincoln's emancipation edict taking effect on January 1. Nat Turner's slave uprising was very much on the public mind. Editorialists whipped up the fear with denunciations of “this hateful call for the insurrection of four millions of slaves, and inauguration of a reign of hell on earth.”
With Eudora gone, and no other help readily available, shopping fell to Margaret. She bought little; she cooked for one and ate by herself. Her forays into the stores showed her the terrible pressure the war was exerting on the civilian population. Prices were outrageous. A bar of yellow soap had gone from a dime to more than a dollar. Newspapers complained that family grocery bills had gone up ten times too.
Donal didn't gloss over the difficulties of the Confederacy. “The newspapers won't print the truth, but you hear it nonetheless. There's a shortage of firewood for the Army, so wherever they happen to be, they tear down the homes of loyal citizens. Soldiers are trapping barn rats and roasting them because there aren't enough rations. I'm happy to make money from these people, but I find them a pack of bunglers. The South can't win. I'd bank everything I own on that.” Bitterly, Margaret wondered if her name was on the list of things he owned.
As if to contradict Donal's negative opinion of the Confederacy, in mid-December Richmond thrilled to news of a huge battle up at Fredericksburg. On December 13, the Army of the Potomac under its new general, Burnside, hurled itself at the rebels and was in turn hurled back, at huge cost. An assault on Longstreet's troops defending a place called Marye's Heights brought the day's bloodiest action. Burnside turned tail.
The victory should have set church bells ringing in celebration. Instead, the papers denounced “Granny” Lee for failing to press his advantage with a counterattack, thereby destroying Burnside's wounded Army. It was two days after the equivocal victory that Donal said he'd finished his business in Richmond. They would be leaving to spend Christmas visiting the company office in Savannah.
“It's warmer down there. At least it should be this time of year. Leaving Richmond strikes me as a wise idea. Your friend is still locked up here. âLead us not into temptation,'” he murmured with a taunting smile. Margaret knew the marriage was finished every way except legally.
She paid a farewell visit to Rose Greenhow. Rose wanted to go to England. If Her Majesty's government recognized the Confederacy, as the Davis government desperately hoped, London would welcome Southerners. Margaret wished Rose success with completing her memoir and kissed her good-bye. She refused to kiss little Rose, now growing into young womanhood and more impudent than ever.
Two days before they were to leave for Georgia, Margaret dined with Cicero at Madam Zetelle's popular restaurant on Main Street. Cicero was talkative, cheerful, peppering his conversation with references to “making the Yankees squeal.” When she asked how he did that, his answer was a coy smile.
“Do you have anything to do with prisoners of war?” she asked.
“Occasionally.”
“Are you acquainted with a prisoner named Alonzo Price? I believe he's in Libby.”
“Price.” A pause. “No. Why do you ask?”
“He was a friend of someone I knew in Washington.”
“If he deserves some special attention, I'll be delighted to arrange it.”
“You don't mean special attention to make him comfortable.”
“No, quite the opposite.”
Margaret shivered. Her brother's good humor had a cruel underpinning. Cicero liked hurting people, and now, evidently, he could do it without being held to account. Sometimes he no longer seemed like her flesh and blood. She promised to write and wondered if she would.
On a dark and blustery morning, Morris drove them to the depot. She and Donal boarded the southbound cars of the Petersburg Railroad. The train bore them through snowy fields, a desolate landscape devoid of color and, for Margaret, any sign of happiness or a normal life.
Gradually they left the snow behind. Watery December sun shone on cotton fields beside the railroad tracks. Leaving North Carolina, the sense of an enemy presence virtually disappeared, even though Yankees occupied one of the South Carolina sea islands, an insignificant place called Hilton Head, not far from Savannah. It was principally a coaling station for the Federal blockade squadron, Donal said; no threat to the mainland thus far.
The graceful old city of Savannah basked in mild winter sunshine. Breezes from the nearby ocean stirred the palms and rattled the palmettos planted around its handsome squares. Ships filled the river and crowded the wharves. An air of prosperity prevailed. The war seemed far away.
They boarded in separate rooms rented from a Mrs. Wilkes and took their meals downstairs at her boardinghouse table. Margaret's face had healed. The last bruise was barely noticeable. While Donal occupied himself at the company office, Margaret unenthusiastically shopped for Christmas gifts. The stores overflowed with luxury goodsâfine cigars from Havana, French champagne and cognac and perfume, and most anything else you could think of, from corset stays and bolts of satin to liver pills and hideous caricatures of Abe Lincoln hand-tinted to make him even more repulsive. Margaret bought Donal a fine pair of leather gaiters and a case of Spanish port.
On Christmas Eve he insisted that they stroll down to the riverfront. A concertina in a crowded tavern carried the tune of “Good King Wenceslas” while rough-voiced sailors bellowed the words. Donal led her along the cobblestone quay to a long, narrow cargo vessel painted a misty gray. Her two funnels were shorter than any Margaret had ever seen. Even at this hour, black stevedores were carrying bales of cotton aboard, lashing them on the open deck and covering them with tarpaulins.
“What do you think of her, my dear?”
“I don't know much about ships, but she's unusual, I'll say that.”
“In many ways,” he agreed. “Very shallow draft. She can do at least eighteen knots. Her bunkers are full of the most expensive coal, anthracite. It produces no smoke. The cotton that you see is worth about nine cents a pound here, but across the pond, ten times that. It's a McKee cargo.”
“The ship's a blockade runner?”
“Aye, built in Glasgow and owned by a syndicate recently formed on the Isle of Wight. She steamed up the river last night, after a three-day run from St. George's, Bermuda. An uneventful run, I might add.” A boyish enthusiasm bubbled in his voice. “The profit potential of this ship is enormous. More than two-thirds of the runners incoming and outgoing make it through the Yankee squadron. The master, Captain Ayers, formerly sailed with the Royal Navy. On each trip he can clear five or six thousand pounds from private cargoes he's permitted to carry. Compared to that, however, the profit of the owners can be astronomical.”
The lap of the river, the tang of the salt breeze blowing across the Low Country marshes, the sight of sweating blacks loading cotton while white men sang carols, made it the strangest Christmas Eve she could remember.
“Does the ship have a name?” None was painted on the transom.
“I wondered if you'd ask. She's the
Lady Margaret
. Your Christmas gift.”
“A ship for a present? I've never heard of such a thing.”
“Now you have. She was financed with money from McKee, Withers. I am principal shareholder in the syndicate. On this run she's bound for the Bahamas. You and I will spend New Year's in the sun while I visit the Nassau office. Then we'll sail to New York. The business climate up there is splendid. The mayor, Fernando Wood, still wants to secede from the Union and establish the city as a separate state trading with both governments. I shall support him wholeheartedly.”
Not a little upset, she said, “Donal, I really prefer the South, even Richmond, over New York. It's Yankee country, and I'm not a Yankee. Must we live there?” She could imagine the isolation, the discomfort, even the ostracism, she'd experience.
He took her hand. “Yes. It's a matter of business.”
“And a spouse has nothing to say about it?”
His smile faded. “If you insist I answer that, no. Please don't spoil the evening, darling. Wouldn't you like to step aboard and meet our captain?”
She followed him up the gangway. Stars twinkled in the royal blue sky above the river. The Bible said this was a night when a star of hope shone for the world. If it was there, she couldn't find it.
December 1862
When Margaret was growing up in Virginia, she played with a favorite doll, made of cloth filled with straw. The smiling mammy doll had a crazy-quilt apron whose array of colors and patterns she found fascinating. For days after Donal punished her, the mirror reflected the same kind of patchwork coloration on Margaret's battered and swollen face.
Sometime during that dreadful night, Eudora had slipped out of the house with her belongings, evidently preferring the wrath of soldiers enforcing the curfew to a confrontation with Margaret. Eudora's brother, Morris, denied knowing anything but the obvious. “She run off, nothin' more to say.” Regardless of how many questions Margaret asked, the answers were essentially the same. “She run off. I don' know where. We never was close.” During these exchanges Morris didn't raise his eyes to look at Margaret. She soon gave up.
Donal again treated her courteously. He said nothing about her bruised face or the reason for it. He absented himself frequently from Church Hill, often staying away all night. He no longer came to her room, for which she was thankful.
Margaret didn't dwell on the state of her marriage. To do so was to insure another long bout of weeping, a pointless indulgence since it always led to the same truth: She had accepted Donal's proposal willingly. Only she was to blame for what had resulted.
She tried to suppress thoughts of Lon Price but found it impossible. She bought some books, wrapped them, and drove the buggy to Libby Prison one stormy afternoon, presuming Lon was still locked up inside. She handed the books to the ill-mannered guard at the entrance with small hope that Lon would receive them. With sleet flying in her face and stinging her eyes, she drove away up Canal Street, turning uphill at Eighteenth past Castle Thunder, another prison with an even worse reputation. She hardly glanced at the grimy brick buildings, old tobacco factories, now enclosed by a high board fence.
It snowed heavily and often in early December. The fluffy whiteness, so pretty as it drifted down, quickly turned to ugly brown slush. People were depressed, sullen. Enthusiasm for Christmas was dampened by shortages, and by the prospect of Lincoln's emancipation edict taking effect on January 1. Nat Turner's slave uprising was very much on the public mind. Editorialists whipped up the fear with denunciations of “this hateful call for the insurrection of four millions of slaves, and inauguration of a reign of hell on earth.”
With Eudora gone, and no other help readily available, shopping fell to Margaret. She bought little; she cooked for one and ate by herself. Her forays into the stores showed her the terrible pressure the war was exerting on the civilian population. Prices were outrageous. A bar of yellow soap had gone from a dime to more than a dollar. Newspapers complained that family grocery bills had gone up ten times too.
Donal didn't gloss over the difficulties of the Confederacy. “The newspapers won't print the truth, but you hear it nonetheless. There's a shortage of firewood for the Army, so wherever they happen to be, they tear down the homes of loyal citizens. Soldiers are trapping barn rats and roasting them because there aren't enough rations. I'm happy to make money from these people, but I find them a pack of bunglers. The South can't win. I'd bank everything I own on that.” Bitterly, Margaret wondered if her name was on the list of things he owned.
As if to contradict Donal's negative opinion of the Confederacy, in mid-December Richmond thrilled to news of a huge battle up at Fredericksburg. On December 13, the Army of the Potomac under its new general, Burnside, hurled itself at the rebels and was in turn hurled back, at huge cost. An assault on Longstreet's troops defending a place called Marye's Heights brought the day's bloodiest action. Burnside turned tail.
The victory should have set church bells ringing in celebration. Instead, the papers denounced “Granny” Lee for failing to press his advantage with a counterattack, thereby destroying Burnside's wounded Army. It was two days after the equivocal victory that Donal said he'd finished his business in Richmond. They would be leaving to spend Christmas visiting the company office in Savannah.
“It's warmer down there. At least it should be this time of year. Leaving Richmond strikes me as a wise idea. Your friend is still locked up here. âLead us not into temptation,'” he murmured with a taunting smile. Margaret knew the marriage was finished every way except legally.
She paid a farewell visit to Rose Greenhow. Rose wanted to go to England. If Her Majesty's government recognized the Confederacy, as the Davis government desperately hoped, London would welcome Southerners. Margaret wished Rose success with completing her memoir and kissed her good-bye. She refused to kiss little Rose, now growing into young womanhood and more impudent than ever.
Two days before they were to leave for Georgia, Margaret dined with Cicero at Madam Zetelle's popular restaurant on Main Street. Cicero was talkative, cheerful, peppering his conversation with references to “making the Yankees squeal.” When she asked how he did that, his answer was a coy smile.
“Do you have anything to do with prisoners of war?” she asked.
“Occasionally.”
“Are you acquainted with a prisoner named Alonzo Price? I believe he's in Libby.”
“Price.” A pause. “No. Why do you ask?”
“He was a friend of someone I knew in Washington.”
“If he deserves some special attention, I'll be delighted to arrange it.”
“You don't mean special attention to make him comfortable.”
“No, quite the opposite.”
Margaret shivered. Her brother's good humor had a cruel underpinning. Cicero liked hurting people, and now, evidently, he could do it without being held to account. Sometimes he no longer seemed like her flesh and blood. She promised to write and wondered if she would.
On a dark and blustery morning, Morris drove them to the depot. She and Donal boarded the southbound cars of the Petersburg Railroad. The train bore them through snowy fields, a desolate landscape devoid of color and, for Margaret, any sign of happiness or a normal life.
Gradually they left the snow behind. Watery December sun shone on cotton fields beside the railroad tracks. Leaving North Carolina, the sense of an enemy presence virtually disappeared, even though Yankees occupied one of the South Carolina sea islands, an insignificant place called Hilton Head, not far from Savannah. It was principally a coaling station for the Federal blockade squadron, Donal said; no threat to the mainland thus far.
The graceful old city of Savannah basked in mild winter sunshine. Breezes from the nearby ocean stirred the palms and rattled the palmettos planted around its handsome squares. Ships filled the river and crowded the wharves. An air of prosperity prevailed. The war seemed far away.
They boarded in separate rooms rented from a Mrs. Wilkes and took their meals downstairs at her boardinghouse table. Margaret's face had healed. The last bruise was barely noticeable. While Donal occupied himself at the company office, Margaret unenthusiastically shopped for Christmas gifts. The stores overflowed with luxury goodsâfine cigars from Havana, French champagne and cognac and perfume, and most anything else you could think of, from corset stays and bolts of satin to liver pills and hideous caricatures of Abe Lincoln hand-tinted to make him even more repulsive. Margaret bought Donal a fine pair of leather gaiters and a case of Spanish port.
On Christmas Eve he insisted that they stroll down to the riverfront. A concertina in a crowded tavern carried the tune of “Good King Wenceslas” while rough-voiced sailors bellowed the words. Donal led her along the cobblestone quay to a long, narrow cargo vessel painted a misty gray. Her two funnels were shorter than any Margaret had ever seen. Even at this hour, black stevedores were carrying bales of cotton aboard, lashing them on the open deck and covering them with tarpaulins.
“What do you think of her, my dear?”
“I don't know much about ships, but she's unusual, I'll say that.”
“In many ways,” he agreed. “Very shallow draft. She can do at least eighteen knots. Her bunkers are full of the most expensive coal, anthracite. It produces no smoke. The cotton that you see is worth about nine cents a pound here, but across the pond, ten times that. It's a McKee cargo.”
“The ship's a blockade runner?”
“Aye, built in Glasgow and owned by a syndicate recently formed on the Isle of Wight. She steamed up the river last night, after a three-day run from St. George's, Bermuda. An uneventful run, I might add.” A boyish enthusiasm bubbled in his voice. “The profit potential of this ship is enormous. More than two-thirds of the runners incoming and outgoing make it through the Yankee squadron. The master, Captain Ayers, formerly sailed with the Royal Navy. On each trip he can clear five or six thousand pounds from private cargoes he's permitted to carry. Compared to that, however, the profit of the owners can be astronomical.”
The lap of the river, the tang of the salt breeze blowing across the Low Country marshes, the sight of sweating blacks loading cotton while white men sang carols, made it the strangest Christmas Eve she could remember.
“Does the ship have a name?” None was painted on the transom.
“I wondered if you'd ask. She's the
Lady Margaret
. Your Christmas gift.”
“A ship for a present? I've never heard of such a thing.”
“Now you have. She was financed with money from McKee, Withers. I am principal shareholder in the syndicate. On this run she's bound for the Bahamas. You and I will spend New Year's in the sun while I visit the Nassau office. Then we'll sail to New York. The business climate up there is splendid. The mayor, Fernando Wood, still wants to secede from the Union and establish the city as a separate state trading with both governments. I shall support him wholeheartedly.”
Not a little upset, she said, “Donal, I really prefer the South, even Richmond, over New York. It's Yankee country, and I'm not a Yankee. Must we live there?” She could imagine the isolation, the discomfort, even the ostracism, she'd experience.
He took her hand. “Yes. It's a matter of business.”
“And a spouse has nothing to say about it?”
His smile faded. “If you insist I answer that, no. Please don't spoil the evening, darling. Wouldn't you like to step aboard and meet our captain?”
She followed him up the gangway. Stars twinkled in the royal blue sky above the river. The Bible said this was a night when a star of hope shone for the world. If it was there, she couldn't find it.
