The Titans (3 page)

always paraded with torches, and with lanterns bobbing from the ends of rails carried on their shoulders. The split rail had become the political symbol of the Republican candidate. Some cynics claimed the rail was merely an imaginative device meant to enhance Lincoln's aura of strength and Western simplicity. Others insisted the candidate had indeed cut wood for fences to make money when he was younger. The Wide-Awakes marched with a military precision and fervor that heightened Michael's fear of what the 52Prologue election could mean. A second company followed the first, circling the square. The sticks beating on the drumheads sounded like volleys of gunfire. "Oh, blast them!" Julia cried suddenly, up on tiptoe again. Michael scented the lilac cologne Louis imported for her from Paris. The sweet smell seemed incongruous against the pandemonium outside. The marchers executed smart right and left faces, balancing their lantern-hung rails and maneuvering them perfectly. The crowd clapped to the beat of the drums and screamed. Michael squeezed far enough forward to see the object of Julia's wrath. A group of celebrants surrounded the Kent carriage down at the curb. Some of the more boisterous men were rocking the vehicle on its springs while the helpless driver tried to shoo them off with jabs of his whip. "If they damage the carriage-Julia began. I'll send an invoice to Thurlow Weed and let the state Republican party pay the bill," Louis said, slipping an arm around her shoulder. She seemed irritated by the contact, Louis dropped his hand, his mouth petulant. Michael was standing at the window next to the one from which Louis and his wife were watching. The stale odor of whiskey told him Theo Payne was close by. His head still throbbed. The drums seemed to snarl. Suddenly all of the day's danger and frustration boiled to the surface. He whirled to face Louis and Julia. "Tor Christ's sake, is that all you care about? A damaged carriage? A business slump? Do you know what it means that Lincoln will be going to Washington? Do you have any appreciation of what it really means?" Behind him, Payne chuckled: "I do." Louis looked at Michael with emotionless eyes. "Whatever it means, we'll turn it to our advantage." The Titans53 "You don't give a goddamn that the country could be blown apart-?" "I think you'd better go home, Michael. You're growing hysterical. I've no place for a man who loses his head." He turned his back. V11I For nearly a minute Michael was too stunned to move. The reporters exchanged startled or puzzled glances. Even Payne had sobered. Finally, Michael walked away from all of them. Not out of cowardice. Out of despair. Lord, I'm thankful Mrs. A isn't here. I'm thankful she can't see what the familys become- He listened to the screaming in the square. And the drums. Thunderous. Thunderous as cannon. In all his life he'd never felt more pessimistic. God alone knew what would be left of the Kents-or the country-a year from this night Book One Black April CHAPTER I "An Oath Registered In Heaven9" WHEN JEPHTHA KENT started across the morass of Pennsylvania Avenue that Monday morning, he wondered if he was the only person in the whole town who was out of step. Washington City was behaving as if a holiday had been declared. He didn't feel at all like joining the Northerners or the Southerners who were celebrating. He was, in fact, upset. He believed it was likely that the interview young Mr. Nicolay had scheduled over three weeks ago would be canceled in view of the calamitous news from Sumter. If it was, he could look forward to trouble. Early that morning he'd received a terse telegraph message from New York. Theo Payne wanted copy on the situation in the nation's capital. Exclusive copy. And, as always, he wanted it at once. Halfway across the avenue, Jephtha waited until a horse-drawn omnibus bound for Georgetown passed. He dodged back as the hoofs of the horses shot out splatters of mud. The wheels of the omnibus bumped over half-buried cobbles that had long ago broken apart and sunk into the slime. Aboard the car half a dozen passengers were bellowing a discordant version of "Hail, Columbia!" Jephtha's scowl deepened. After the omnibus went by, he started on toward the iron fence bordering the south side of the street His passage was again impeded, this time by a platoon of the

588An Oath Registered in Heaven" Washington Rifles marching at quickstep. He darted around the rear of the column, avoided a couple of shabbily dressed blacks bound on some errand, then jumped out of the way of a barrow-pusher alternately blowing a battered horn and shrieking his offer of fresh oysters. Jephtha hurried through the gate into President's Park. Two run-down brick buildings stood on his right-the War and Navy Departments. They faced two more on his left-State and Treasury. The buildings flanked the northern end of the tree-covered lawn on which several of Washington's unpenned hogs were wandering, ignored by the clerks and functionaries hurrying back and forth along the walks. The walks all converged on the Executive Mansion further down in the park. Jephtha angled toward the bronze statue of Jefferson in front of the mansion's north portico. The statue was occasionally criticized because some people believed the sculptor had given the former president a Negroid look. Jephtha noted that the outbreak of hostilities hadn't resulted in the presence of any additional guards. Just the usual two stood outside the doors, despite the fact that the man who lived inside had been violently hated-and threatened-ever since his election. Prior to the inauguration, the President had been forced to sneak into Washington disguised in an army cloak and a cap of Scotch plaid, guarded by railroad detectives because of a rumored assassination plot. Jephtha had heard a description of the pathetic disguise from an elderly Negro porter who had seen it. In hopes of getting a story, he had been at the depot shortly after the special train arrived with its mysterious passenger. And he'd stood in the raw March wind while Lincoln spoke to the crowd present for the inaugural. Spoke outdoors, as Army sharpshooters lined the rooftops of The Titans59 the city's main thoroughfare in case of a murder attempt. With that kind of atmosphere pervading the capital even before the news from Sumter, what the hell was there to celebrate now? A familiar smell tainted the air of the park on this Monday in April, 1861. The warm spring weather always brought with it the stench of the garbage and human waste floating in the old city canal running by the far south end of the park. Jephtha paused a moment, glancing in that direction. On the other side of the canal he glimpsed the base of the obelisk dedicated to the memory of the country's first President. But work on it had been abandoned when the subscriptions to pay for it had lagged. The uncompleted monument, the smell of sewage pervading the Potomac flats, and the rude, graceless outlines of the mansion with its straggle of greenhouses and outbuildings all confirmed the opinion Jephtha had heard often from foreign visitors: As a national capital, Washington City was a disgrace. It lacked identity, it had a distinct feeling of impermanence, and it was filthy to boot. Of course, it might not continue to be the capital for long. Major Anderson, in command of the garrison at Fort Sumter in Charleston harbor, had heard General Beauregard's guns open fire at four-thirty in the morning last Friday, April 12. Thirty-four hours later, Anderson and his men surrendered. The long-anticipated clash of arms had come, precipitated by the question of whether the newly formed Confederacy was entitled to take possession of Federal military installations within its boundaries. Both Northern and Southern factions in Washington had exploded with a macabre enthusiasm when the first telegraphic reports of the surrender had been posted 608An Oath Registered in Heaven" late Saturday evening on the bulletin board of the Evening Star, where Jephtha kept a desk. In his opinion, the Northerners particularly had no reason for joy. The city lay directly across the Potomac from one avowedly Southern state, and was hemmed in by another in which Southern sympathy ran high. How long could Washington survive if the rebels decided to attempt to seize it? In view of that question, the city's euphoric mood struck him as insane. Or am I the only lunatic in the comwhole town? He felt no sense of relief because Sumter had been fired on. He was convinced the President's proclamation, made public that morning, was foolishly optimistic; he had a copy of it in his pocket. The man Jephtha was going to attempt to see had declared an "insurrection" existed. To suppress it, he'd only called out seventy-five thousand state militiamen-and those only for a period of three months. Jephtha recalled the fervor of the people he had known, generally respected, and tried to serve in Virginia. He doubted ninety days would see the Southern rebellion to its end. He walked up the steps of the mansion. Both sentries recognized him. One waved him on. Pushing through the glass doors, he tried not to think of the three sons he hadn't seen in several years. He didn't even know their whereabouts. That worried him most of all.

At the foot of the main staircase, a family that included four children gawked at the elaborate chandeliers. Farm people, to judge from their look. Jephtha caught bits of excited conversation in German as he climbed the stairs two at a time. Sightseers came and went at will in the President's home. The Titans61 On the second floor he proceeded to the office of John Nicolay, one of the Chief Executive's two personal secretaries. The red-haired, freckled young man was engaged in conversation with a frock-coated gentleman Jephtha recognized as a low-ranking official who worked for Secretary of State Seward. Nicolay, at least, wasn't smiling or capering like some of the imbeciles in the streets: "comGeneral Scott will be here at eleven for the meeting. Please send messengers to inform the cabinet members." The visitor nodded and brushed past Jephtha, who stood waiting in the doorway, unnoticed by Nicolay. Jephtha Kent was a tall, stem-looking man of forty- one. His gray-blue eyes contrasted sharply with the dark, straight hair he tended to forget about combing. His tcheap suit of black broadcloth was equally unkempt. His shirt had a distinctly gray cast Jephtha's nose was prominent; blade-like. Like his dark hair, it was a trait he'd gotten from his Indian mother, a Shoshoni squaw named Grass Singing. His father had married her during his days as a mountain man in the far western part of the continent. Jephtha's pale, intense eyes were his only physical inheritance from his Virginia forebears. His grandmother on his father's side had come from the Tidewater country. Jephtha often drew stares; at first glance, he looked more Indian than white. Nicolay was busy sorting papers on his desk. Jephtha cleared his throat. "Good morning, John." "Oh-to " Starting, Nicolay glanced up. "Jephtha. Good morning. One minute-I'm trying to find a note the President gave me right after breakfast." The secretary located it, then uttered a long sigh. "I'm sorry. I completely forgot you were on the calendar." 628An Oath Registered in Heaven" "I'm not surprised. It's been a hectic weekend, I imagine." "It's been hell." "Any further word from Sumter?" "Nothing beyond what we heard last night." "Anderson and all his men got aboard the relief vessels?" "That's right." "No more casualties reported?" "Only the one-Anderson's man who got killed when a cannon blew up. General Beauregard was damned civil about the whole business. Allowed Anderson to salute his flag before he and his troops left the fort." "You'll find that typical of Southern people, I think," Jephtha said. "I hope it doesn't mislead anyone into believing Southerners won't fight. They're hard fighters." "I realize. We've a lot of "em in the army, you know. West Point men. Senior officers. I don't doubt a good many will hand in their resignations." Jephtha nodded. "Emulating Beauregard's example." The commander at Charleston had withdrawn from the superintendency at West Point to return to his native South. "What about news from Richmond?" "None. But I expect we'll hear by midweek." "And they'll follow the first seven states out of the Union." "That's what the President anticipates," Nicolay agreed with a glum expression. "How many more does he expect to go?" "North Carolina, Tennessee, and Arkansas look almost certain. Kentucky, Maryland, and Missouri could fall either way." "I suppose all this turmoil means Mr. Lincoln won't see me this morning." "Oh, I think he'll see you. He knows the New York Union stumped hard for him while Seward's men were still whining about their licking at the Wigwam." The Titans63 Nicolay slipped into the hall. "Come along and let's find out. I wouldn't expect more than five or ten minutes, though. Or any specific information. Matters are just too uncertain." Jephtha followed the secretary to the other end of the building. There, a carpeted corridor led from the Lincoln family's living quarters in the southwest corner to the President's office on the southeast. A crowd of jobseekers, contractors and ordinary citizens wanting favors packed the chairs and benches along the corridor. Such crowds always jammed the mansion's upper halls on business days, waiting to pluck the President's arm and dog his steps whenever he appeared. Cigar fumes and the smell of sweat fouled the air. Jephtha heard some of the petitioners discussing Major Anderson's safe removal from the Charleston fort. He listened to a couple of obscene comments about the character of Jefferson Davis, the former military officer, legislator, and Secretary of War who was now president of the seven-state Confederacy down in Montgomery. Jephtha had been in the Senate gallery in January when Jefferson Davis had submitted his resignation during a sad, moving speech prompted by Mississippi's following South Carolina out of the Union. The Senator had long held out against secession and its inherent promise of violence. But circumstances and principle had finally forced him to a reluctant decision. While he bid his Senatorial colleagues farewell, many of them wept. Nicolay left Jephtha beside another blue-clad sentry, Lincoln's sole protector. The secretary knocked and disappeared behind the rosewood door. In less than a minute, he returned. "You may go in for a few minutes. He's almost finished with his other visitor." "Who is it?" Nicolay smiled. "The only person in Washington who can come into the office whenever he wants." 648An Oath Registered in Heaven" "Ah," Jephtha said, understanding. The secretary started to push the door open, apologetic: "As I suspected, the President won't give you any specific answers about government policy or our response to the developments at Sumter." Understandable, Jephtha thought as he thanked Nicolay and stepped inside, struck again by a feeling of pessimism. Who except perhaps the abolitionists and the Southern fire-eaters had ever expected it would come to this? A country less than a hundred years old at war with itself-his He doubted Mr. Lincoln-or anyone else in the nation comreally knew how to find answers for the problems posed by the unprecedented calamity. A great deal of sport had been made of Abraham Lincoln's peculiar physique: his great height-six feet four inches-coupled with his lankiness; his stooping posture; his huge hands and feet and ears. This morning the President looked even more like a great skinny ogre-though a genial one-hunched as he was in a fragile chair in front of the small desk by the windows. Southeast through those windows the iron base of the uncompleted dome of the Capitol caught the leaden glare of sun trying to break through clouds. A tram whistle shrieked twice. The Baltimore and Ohio from the North- Another train occupied Lincoln's attention. Of wood, and gaudily painted, the toy had evidently developed some problem with one of its yellow driver wheels. The President was trying to repair the difficulty by pressuring the end of an axle nail with his thumb. Standing next to him and shifting from foot to foot The Titans65 was the visitor whose identity Jephtha had already guessed. Lincoln's son Thomas, who was eight or so. He and his eleven-year-old brother Willie lived at the mansion. Lincoln's eldest son, Robert, was away, doing university work. Satisfied, Lincoln put the locomotive on the desk. He ran it back and forth a few inches. "There, Tadpole. I reckon she's ready to go to Chicago now." His eyes showed affection as he handed the toy to his grinning son. "Thank you, Papa dear," Tad exclaimed, hugging his father around the neck. Because of the boy's cleft palate, the words Papa dear had a thick, distorted sound- more like puppy day. It was Tad's affliction, Jephtha had heard Nicolay comment, that made Lincoln love the boy with a special intensity. Clutching the repaired locomotive, Tad bounded for the door. "Hello, sir. See my engine? Papa fixed it!" "Looks like a good job, too," Jephtha smiled. "You're a lucky young fellow-it's not every boy who can persuade the President of the United States to repair his train." The hall door closed. Lincoln chuckled. He removed his spectacles and stood up-a movement resembling that of an ungainly water bird rising on long legs. "Mr. Kent, good morning to you." Lincoln extended his immense hand and enfolded Jephtha's fingers. "Sorry you were delayed by the breakdown on Tad's railroad. I also regret we're together on such an unfortunate day." Despite the words, Lincoln's wide, somewhat slack mouth curled at the corners in that country grin Jephtha found so likable. Lincoln dressed like an undertaker- all in black-much as Jephtha did. His coat and his thin string necktie of silk matched the color of his unruly hair and chin whiskers. He looked older than fifty- two. His skin was much more sallow than it had been 668An Oath Registered in Heaven" when Jephtha had seen him last-at a private dinner given by the family for several reporters early in March. The President's gray eyes appeared unusually sunken. They were odd, arresting eyes; eyes that looked at the world with a touch of sorrow even when Lincoln laughed, as he did often. Perhaps the change had come over him during the weekend, after the Government's refusal to yield Sumter had led to the cannonading by Beauregard and the surrender by Anderson. Lincoln gestured his guest to a long oak table covered with green baize. The table dominated the large office. In less than an hour, fat, gouty Winfield Scott would be seated at it with members of the cabinet. "Yes, unfortunate is a good word for it-was Jephtha began. "For many more reasons than one. Not only do we have this insurrection on our hands, but right after Tad's locomotive broke, Willie lost his favorite top. Breakfast was a perfect disorder-was Jephtha took a chair at the table. While Lincoln shambled back to the pigeonhole desk littered with papers and books, he said, "I appreciate that you'll take any time at all to see me, Mr. President." He pulled out the copy of Lincoln's proclamation, then a smaller sheet and a pencil. "Well, after all, Mr. Kent, you helped start this muss with the South." Jephtha blinked. "I, sir?" Lincoln waved. Only then, when the President's lips twitched again, did Jephtha realize Lincoln was teasing him: "Oh, maybe not you personally. But that Boston printing house your family owns-that certainly played a big part. They always say it's the politicians who cause trouble for common folk. But I sometimes wonder if it isn't our authors who set off the firecrackers first." The Titans67 Still baffled, Jephtha kept silent. As always, Lincoln's voice had that high-pitched, almost shrill quality that caused so many of his enemies to say he spoke in a "low Hoosier style." He slurred some of his words, too. But despite his speech and the impression he gave of somehow having been put together by a Deity trying to use a collection of unwanted parts, Lincoln had always impressed Jephtha. The feeling went back to the first time he'd heard the President speak, at the inaugural. The man might appear to be a bumpkin. Or, as his most vicious critics claimed, the descendant of a gorilla. Yet Jephtha found him possessed of an intelligence and gentle strength that lent him an extraordinary magnetism- even if some of his ideas were more hopeful than realistic. Lacing his huge hands together-and still teasing- Lincoln went on: "What I meant is, books helped stir up this war, Mr. Kent. First and foremost, Mrs. Stowe's novel. Then Mr. Douglass" autobiography. Mr. Helper's tract-was Lincoln was referring to The Impending Crisis of the South, a volume even more thoroughly detested in the cotton states than Uncle Tom's Cabin. Hinton Helper, an obscure hack, had put forth the theory that the South should abandon slavery because reliance on it was destroying the potential growth of Southern industry. Helper, a Southerner himself, had strong views about the inferiority of black men and women. But adherence to slavery, he said, would ultimately put the South at the mercy of the industrial North. "comand I count that other slave autobiography from Kent and Son the fourth of the quartet that pushed us toward the current crisis. Is the mulatto who wrote West to Freedom still in your employ?" "Yes, sir," Jephtha nodded. "Israel Hope's in charge of the family mining operations in California." From time to time Jephtha completely forgot that he was heir 688An Oath Registered in Heaven" to his father's considerable fortune. Others in the family comsch as young Louis-found his forgetfulness puzzling. And Fan, who had divorced him after he'd fled Lexington, had found it scandalous. Did she still? He didn't know. Every letter he'd written to her in the past two years had gone unanswered, a source of bitterness and-often-rage. Abruptly, Jephtha realized he'd been wasting precious moments; Lincoln was repeating a question that had gone unheard while Jephtha's thoughts wandered. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't hear what you-was "I said, do you have some things you want to inquire about?" "I do, Mr. President. But Mr. Nicolay warned me you probably couldn't speak freely." "Said it with an apology in his voice, I suppose?" "Yes." "John hates to antagonize you fellows from the press. That's because he used to be one of you. Out in Illinois he worked for the Pike County Sucker. My, that's a flavorful name, ain't-isn't it?" Jephtha smiled but said nothing. After a moment's thought, Lincoln went on: "But John put it to you honestly. I won't comment on very much. The fact is, I've gagged everybody in the administration for the time being. These next few days will be mighty difficult. We can't afford to have the wrong things get into print. So no major statements are to be given out, except from this office or with my express approval. I imagine that'll save you some time, however. You won't have to scurry from "department to department, hoping to find one of your sources ready to blab-was Lincoln's smile became sympathetic. "Hope I haven't spoiled your morning." "No, sir," Jephtha lied. Theo Payne would be far The Titans69 from sympathetic when he learned official Washington had nothing to say. "All right, then. If you want to go ahead on those terms, ask your questions." Trying to conceal his disappointment, Jephtha took a moment to scan the questions he'd roughed out earlier. "I heard your chief opponent in the November election was here yesterday. Has he endorsed your proclamation?" Lincoln nodded. "Judge Douglas did call-I can never get used to referring to him as Senator, you know. He did endorse the proclamation. Without reservation. He'll be issuing a statement today." "With your permission?" "With my full permission, yes, sir. The Judge and I scrapped long and hard-the debates in Illinois when I pinned him to the Freeport doctrine, then the campaign. But he's a good friend. More important, he's a Union man. I don't know which is the greater boon, the Judge supporting me now, or the way he got me