The Bride of Texas (29 page)

The salesman’s testimony was confused. Father and son had been arguing as if a million dollars were at stake, but the salesman hadn’t really understood the point of the disagreement. Yet from his testimony its metaphysical essence became clear: Jeremy had not accepted the death of his wife and son with appropriate Christian humility. Radically exceeding the limits of his inherited faith, he had called God a murderer to his aged father’s face, as he had done in the amazing conversation with me in the kitchen. It never entered his mind that God might have had nothing to do with his tragedy because —

Because there was no God. That was what the half-crippled eighty-year-old Elihu Lecklider had insisted in a steely voice. There simply was no God in the universe. It wasn’t God that
killed Mary and Jeremy, but a broken axle. If it’s anyone’s fault, Jeremy, it’s yours. You should have kept the cart in better repair. But you’re not the murderer either. Nobody is the murderer. The universe is blind, cruel, indifferent. There is no hope anywhere. There is only death, and whether it happens now or a hundred years from now makes no difference, for it will always happen. That’s the way the universe is.

All this came out at the trial. It seemed to me that the notion of a God that didn’t exist was less blasphemous than the notion of a God who was in fact the Devil. Theologically speaking, which was less acceptable? God the illusion, or God the murderer?

Vallandigham took the tortured philosophies of these two old men who had somehow lost their grip on the meaning of life, and made of them a dichotomy that lent itself to great oratory. The victim was a Christian who had blasphemed out of understandable pain. The murderer was an atheist, anathema in a Christian society; a pagan, someone lacking in values, unworthy of the benefit of mitigating circumstances.

The old man was obviously in agony. He denied nothing, confessed to everything. He obviously wanted to die. I just don’t know if he wanted to die on the gallows. Perhaps Vallandigham was doing him a favour, though it was hard to tell. Shattered by his own deed, old Lecklider would not have lived much longer anyway. They brought him to the gallows on a stretcher.

“Vallandigham walks over dead bodies,” I said. “Literally.”

From our dining room you could step out onto a small balcony with three wicker chairs and a round table. It was only the last
week in April, but the evening was mild, more like May. We sat down and the gentlemen lit their cigars.

“He’d like to walk over the dead body of the United States,” said Ambrose. “I’m no philosopher, Professor Tracy, and no politician either. But peace now would be tantamount to a Union defeat.”

Jasmine came out onto the porch with a fresh bottle of cognac. She was listening to the conversation intently. The glasses on the tray rattled lightly.

“The only way peace would be possible now would be if one side capitulated,” said Ambrose. “Our side, or their side. And we —”

“And we won’t, of course,” my husband interrupted. “Because it would be more than just a defeat for the Union, it would be a defeat for the nineteenth century.”

Jasmine set a glass down on the table before him.

“We have far more factories,” my husband continued, “and we can place far more soldiers in the field. And in the final analysis — though, unfortunately, to many ears in the North this may seem the weakest argument of all — we are fighting for the liberation, not the enslavement, of the human race. The only advantage the Confederacy holds over us is that so far their generals” — he halted, feeling awkward about saying this in Ambrose’s presence, then he went on — “have enjoyed better fortune in war than ours.”

The glasses sparkled in the light of the candles. It was a balmy night; the stars overhead were reflected in Ambrose’s polished boots. Humphrey raised his glass to the moon. Nothing seemed to me lovelier than a glass of cognac shimmering with little blue and amber flames. It was so peaceful.

“Here in the Middle West,” Humphrey continued, “many people have been affected by the collapse of river commerce. The Union gunboat patrols the river to prevent it from serving
the rebels and their northern suppliers, but to many it represents violence, usurpation, freedom denied, misery, and bankruptcy. It’s difficult to explain why they should face ruin here for the victory of the Union, when Yankee manufacturers in the East are lining their pockets. Now Lincoln has tossed the Emancipation Proclamation into the pot. Workers fear a rapid drop in wages if the Middle West is flooded with Negroes who have no idea what wages are, and who are prepared to work for a mere caricature of a decent day’s pay.”

“There’s a war on!” said Ambrose, frowning, swirling the sparkling liquid around in his glass. “The troops are sacrificing far more. When the war is over, everything will return to normal, including river traffic on the Mississippi.”

“Yes,” my husband said, “but if too many freed slaves move north, it’s going to cause problems. The main problem, for now at least, is that those who want peace with the South are only fanning the flames of these fears. You’ve read those newspaper articles, haven’t you, general?”

Ambrose nodded gravely.

“At the Democratic Convention where Vallandigham tried unsuccessfully to win the nomination,” said my husband, “an old anti-Lincoln slogan turned up: ‘The Constitution as it is, the Union as it was.’ Vallandigham’s supporters added, ‘And the Niggers where they are!’ There can be no misconstruing that.” Humphrey gave a dry chuckle and took a sip from his glass. “There are paradoxes everywhere. Here, workers are afraid of competition from the Negro. Many entrepreneurs in the East fear it too, for some factories in the South are beginning to use slave labour and that could bring down international prices. That’s why they’re for emancipation in the East, and against it in the Middle West.” He paused and sighed. “No one really cares what happens to the Negroes, neither the factory owners in the East nor the peace-makers in the Middle
West. Hatred for the Negro race is actually artificial. Or rather, it’s secondary.”

I rose and walked over to the newspaper stand by the balcony door, and took out a copy of the Indianapolis
Daily Sentinel
. I had marked some articles in red pencil. My two men watched me in silence as I read aloud: “ ‘Congress has the negro-phobia. It is nigger in the Senate, and nigger in the House. It is nigger in the forenoon and nigger in the afternoon. It is nigger in motions and nigger in speeches. It was nigger the first day and it has been nigger every day. Nigger is in every man’s eye, and nigger in every man’s mouth. It’s nigger in the lobby and nigger in the hall.… The nigger vapor is a moral pestilence that blunts the sense of duty to the Constitution and destroys the instinct of obedience to the law.’ ” I put down the newspaper. “Thus saith Vallandigham. Does that sound like secondary hatred to you? Or even artificial? Vallandigham voted against emancipation in Congress. That might be explained by your hypothesis, Humphrey, but he also voted against recognizing the Negro Republic of Haiti —”

“That was Lincoln’s proposal,” my husband interrupted. “And the abolitionists were pushing for it.”

“But, my darling,” I asked, “what does that tell you?”

My husband paused to think, then smiled. “You’re probably right. His distaste may well have deeper roots. Because” — he paused again — “if you look at his voting record, he was in favour of eliminating the inhumane treatment of sailors, for granting Jews full rights of American citizenship, and as a matter of fact he even voted to allow the Mormons in Utah to practise polygamy. You might even say” — he made a wry face — “that Vallandigham is a champion of the underprivileged as long as their skin isn’t black. Although, in a sense, he ought to be grateful to the Negroes.”

“Why?” asked Ambrose.

“He ran for Congress three times unsuccessfully,” said my husband. “He was defeated a fourth time too, by Lewis Campbell. But Vallandigham found out that, all over Ohio, many of those who voted for Campbell were Negroes, even though the local regulations prohibited it. He challenged the results and after a recount he came off about two votes ahead of Campbell. He hadn’t won the confidence of the voters, but the law was on his side.”

I thought for a moment. “Humphrey,” I said, “you’re the philosophy professor. What’s the name of that Greek play where the sister wants to bury her murdered brother and —”

“What play?” said Ambrose.

When we were saying our farewells that evening under the lantern at the doorway, and Ambrose stood there in his glittering uniform, he seemed to have made up his mind about something. He swung onto his horse and galloped off into the shimmering darkness. Such a lovely uniform. Soldiers deserve it. Their lot in war is terrible.

Humphrey went to bed and was soon sound asleep, while I sat in the parlour, thoughts chasing around in my brain like naughty children.

Was I being unfair to Vallandigham? One thing you couldn’t deny: he had opposed this war for a long time, and what had it brought him? He had once tried to explain his position in an army camp in Washington, and a sergeant had slapped his face and he had almost been lynched. A grocer in Dayton where he’d shopped for years refused to serve him, saying he wouldn’t take money from traitors. When Clem tried to talk the matter over with him, the grocer pulled a pistol on
him; Vallandigham stepped back, tripped on the doorstep, fell to his hands and knees, and crawled along the sidewalk into the next shop. Unfortunately it was a fashionable milliner’s, and the sight of the congressman entering the establishment on all fours was far too delightful for the ladies to keep to themselves.

To that point, of course, the war had been one calamity after another: Bull Run, Antietam, Chickamauga, Fredericksburg, with no more than fleeting glimpses of victory. Many in the North were growing weary of the war, and the Copperheads — the fanatics and the Democrats advocating peace with the South — were gaining in strength. Unless the North started winning, the Democratic candidate stood to beat Lincoln in next year’s presidential election. Was this what Vallandigham was betting on? Whatever it was, so far things were going his way.

One time at Eunice Jarrett’s, where Vallandigham was invited as the guest of honour, he explained his theory of the war to us. Negro slavery isn’t the issue at all, he said. It’s over things like import tariffs, which the North insists on and the South rejects, because the North opposes importing cheap industrial goods from Europe, while the South welcomes it. It’s over the transcontinental railroad, which the North wants to run from Chicago to San Francisco while the South wants to go across Texas to New Mexico. To enforce their will, the Northern capitalists need to whip up a war fever — but who would go to war for an import tariff or a railroad route? That’s where abolitionism suits their purpose. Slavery can’t be considered with a cool head, and abolitionism adds the element of righteous indignation that clouds the mind. But with the North less than successful in the war so far, hot heads have begun to cool. The soldiers have come into contact with Negroes and had their eyes opened. They see the horrors of the bloody casualties.…

“Does this mean you are not opposed to slavery, Mr. Vallandigham?” asked Eunice, and her voice trembled. She
had recently been host to Harriet Beecher Stowe, and was considering inviting the other Harriet, Harriet Tubman, to her salon.

“Of course I am,” replied Clem, “but I have also always been opposed to unleashing this terrible war for the sake of abolitionist fantasies.”

“And yet —” said Eunice, but Vallandigham wasn’t finished.

“Any dispute can be resolved through discussion,” he declared with deep conviction. “Even slavery.”

“But —” Eunice tried again, but Vallandigham talked on and on, while the ladies in Eunice’s parlour stared at him as if they’d been bitten by a snake.

I thought of the snake with the lovely coppery head, called by the same name as the copper coin worn in the lapels of those who strove for peace with the South. Unlike the bombastic rattler, which gives a noisy warning before it strikes, this attractive reptile gives no warning at all.

The Bavarian pendulum clock struck midnight. I sighed. I had resolved nothing; I just wanted to be fair.

And Ambrose had come to a decision of some sort. He was going to do something foolish.

Jasmine tiptoed into the room. I wondered what she was doing up so late. I had sent her to bed hours before.

She hesitated, her hands folded at her waist.

“Is something the matter, Jasmine?”

“I can’t sleep,” she said, “I keep —”

“What is it, child?”

The fear in her eyes was obvious. “Miz Tracy — do you think —”

“Think what?”

“Think they’ll make peace with the Rebels?”

“Oh dear, whatever gave you that silly idea?” I said, putting an arm around her. “Of course they won’t make peace. We
would have to surrender for that to happen, and you saw General Burnside tonight, didn’t you? Men like that don’t surrender, Jasmine.”

I would go to the library at my husband’s college and read the newspapers. They had a good selection of Democratic and Republican papers, from Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio, and the major dailies from New York and Boston — entertaining reading if you weren’t too concerned whether the outcome of the war would suit Jasmine and her lazy footman.

The newspapers siding with the anti-war Democrats called for peace, which they would qualify as “honourable” and “mutually acceptable” and “sensible” and so on. But they also ran articles that demanded peace “at any price”. I imagined Ambrose diligently trying to work out what that price would be, furrowing his brow as he read lines directed at Lincoln’s government: “Fight your own battles. The Democratic press of this country refuses to support the interests of the abolitionist traitors any longer. This paper will do everything in its power to stop the wave of desolation that threatens to sweep the land!” In his Washington office Halleck may have thought these were just words — strong words, but no more than words. But people here were mesmerized by them.