Rebels of Babylon (47 page)

I HAD A DAUGHTER!

When I returned to my hotel, I found a letter waiting. One of our ships had put in with a pouch of mail, including the news that my Mary Myfanwy had given birth to a girl in January. Mother and child were healthy, for which I got down on my knees and thanked the Lord.

Twas heartening to be reminded that life goes on, despite the greed of death.

My darling and I had settled upon the names before I left. A son would have become James, but a lass was to be Angharad, a sweet Welsh name that summons lost, green hills. To our American neighbors, she might be simply Ann. But not at home, where memory warms the hearth.

Twas my mother’s second name. Angharad. A name for gentle hands and gentler hearts.

And yet news of the birth brought new concerns. The autumn past I had encountered the pastor of our Methodist church under circumstances I could not approve. I would not sit again in a pew to listen to that hypocrite condemn poor folk whose sins were less than his own. That is not what good John Wesley intended.

The problem lay in the choice of a new church. My Mary and I disagreed. And though a husband must have the final word, faith should not be commanded. I had in mind a move to the Primitive Methodists, who enjoy simplicity and strictness.
Mary would have none of it. She thought we should become Episcopalians. Her family were of the established church and her father, the Reverend Mr. Griffiths, had been a clergyman known throughout Glamorgan. He might have been a bishop, had his meanness been confined to those below him. My own father had been a Methodist parson, whose early death robbed hill and vale of kindness. I do not think he would have liked me deserting Christ for the English.

I would not be too hard on my beloved, but the truth is that the Episcopal Church is quite the social apogee in Pottsville. As it is elsewhere in America. I feared that, on top of our new-gained wealth, my beloved’s head had been turned by aspirations. You will forgive my bluntness, but a painted church is like a painted harlot. Perhaps worse. For the Magdalene was dear to Christ, which I do not think the case with a wealthy clergyman.

Plain altars for plain hearts, say I. The highest temple will not reach to Heaven.

Well, time there would be to reconcile with my darling. Confident I was that I might reason her into agreement. Unless she sneaked about and had our daughter baptized high church in my absence. Which would have been a wicked thing to do.

How quickly we discover cracks in the bright façade of happiness.

Still, I had a daughter. And there was joy in it. Now we would be five, including Fanny.

I would have liked to leap aboard a ship that very instant. But matters wanted tidying. Nor was a vessel on orders for Philadelphia or Baltimore. It took me seven days to find a berth. Four more passed before we sailed.

There was a fuss about passages for Mr. Barnaby and his betrothed, as they were civilians. The Navy don’t like giving rides for free. In the end, though, all come right. Captain Senkrecht intervened to help me, for which I am indebted to this day, and I made things nice by employing Mr. Barnaby officially. I was not certain I had that authority, but boldness favored David and the
Israelites. We gentlemen chose to overlook the lass, who stayed belowdecks until we waved our farewells.

Mr. Barnaby sailed with a tear in his eye. New Orleans had been the scene of his greatest happiness and his greatest loss. And I do believe he was fond of the victuals.

We put in at Havana for the consul’s mail. But there was more to our detour than diplomacy. I could smell it. Spies were everywhere about, including Europeans. The sort with flashy manners and frayed collars. Each one offered a visiting card that made him out a commercial representative. It seemed almost rude of them not to take more pains. But the Spaniard, by his nature, is not inquisitive, and the climate made even secret agents slothful.

We lingered nearly a week, feigning repairs as we kept an eye on a rumored blockade runner carrying quinine. And whispers there were in plenty of that cursed ship, the C.S.S.
Alabama.
She was spotted off Bermuda. No, she was last seen rounding Madeira. She was selling her loot in Vera Cruz. Or haunting the whaling routes between cliffs of ice.

Wherever she was, that ship was on my conscience.

But let that bide.

Havana is a pleasant town, although its energies seem much declined. Even the stevedores do not like to sweat. And the officials of Spain’s empire much prefer fine uniforms to utility. They think themselves each one a maharajah. Still, it is a pretty place, although it wants a sweep and a daub of paint.

Magdalena was sufficiently well to be married. But, then, what woman is not?

She and Mr. Barnaby were joined in the eyes of God in a Roman cathedral. The decoration would have made all India blush. I stood their witness, girding my Christian loins in the face of Popery. But the thing that really put me off my ham was the Catholic priest. He made a fuss, declaiming a hundred reasons why a Protestant such as myself could not participate. I should have thought him honored that I showed.

All come right with a gold piece dropped in the poor box. The priest looked one way, I looked the other, and we may assume the Lord looked down on all.

I did not wish to stint such an occasion, so I invited the ship’s officers to join myself and the couple for a supper at the finest hotel restaurant in Havana. We most of us got stomach sick, but I do not believe the Navy men held it against me. Or against Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby, who were spoony as young Romeo and his Juliet.

Two more Union vessels put into port, allowing us to sail on toward Baltimore. We had a run of wicked days on the waters, but I spent most of the voyage increasing my knowledge. Indeed, whenever I have a spare moment—and after I have spent an hour with the Bible—I believe it my Christian duty to pursue learning. We must make good use of the faculties God has given us and never forego a chance at self-improvement.

Even as a lad I liked to read. How sweet it must be to have an education! You will call me an ambitious man, but I hope my son will attend a university. It must be the finest thing in the world to spend one’s youth surrounded by good books.

The officers loaned me what reading they had aboard. The choice was not especially elevated, but we must make do. So when I was not bundled in my greatcoat, staring at the pewter-colored sea and wondering if I had done more evil than good, I visited again with Lord Macaulay, who is ever of firm opinion. I let myself be reminded of the price of liberty by Mr. Motley—and of liberty’s dangers by Mr. Carlyle, who is Scotch. The Navy men had no works complete, only random volumes. But I had read the missing bits before, as most men have.

I made it my purpose to read a book each day, no matter how late the lamp burned.

Mr. Prescott’s works were a valued discovery. I always knew the Spaniards were a bad lot, but those Aztecs were as nasty a pack as ever turned up for their breakfast. Glad I was to learn they got what was coming to them. Grown men dancing around in feathers and cutting out living hearts. In broad daylight.

We steamed into the Chesapeake in the face of winter winds. Sleet lashed the decks as we entered Baltimore harbor. We were home. Or nearly so. And the weather almost made me miss New Orleans.

I CONFESSED WHAT I had done to Mr. Seward, our secretary of state and a fellow who knew how each dog and cat voted in New York State. I could not keep it in, see. All through the voyage, whenever I looked up from Mr. Carlyle or Mr. Motley, I saw the spectre of my rash injustice. It may seem to you too fine a point, but I did not much regret Captain Bolt’s death. Yet, I rued the manner of it. I do believe the lad deserved to die. But his sentence of death had not been mine to pass. The law must be protected, obeyed and cherished. It is the noblest creation of sorry mankind.

I told Mr. Seward how I had left the lad, knowing the negroes would hang him from a tree. If not worse.

Mr. Seward, who was a banty bird no larger than myself and a fellow of both vigor and impatience, fell into a stillness foreign to his manner. He sat behind his paper-smothered desk in a morbid quiet. When he leaned back, the rasp of the springs in his chair come fierce as a gunshot.

He made a steeple of his fingertips, then touched the fleshy construction to his lips. I heard not only the bustle without his door but the slap of winter rain upon the window. Mr. Seward looked away for so long a time I felt myself forgotten.

Of a sudden, he snapped back to business, dropping his hands to the blotter on his desk.

“I swear to the Great God Almighty, Jones. If you ever go into politics, I’m getting the Hell out. Unless I’m damned sure I’ve got you on my side. Behind all that pious Christian blather, you’re one nasty sonofabitch. I’d hate to be the man who got you riled.”

He was never one for mildness of speech. Nor did I find him an accurate judge of character.

“Oh, Hell,” he said, “done is done, I suppose.” His face grew a look that might have been either a frown or a smile restrained. “I’m half inclined to think I would’ve done the same thing myself. Old Bolt was a Douglas man, anyway. Politically unreliable. No good to Lincoln, or to me. Mean, too. Cost poor Stephen plenty, with all his bullying out in Chicago back when. A man should never make an enemy he can avoid, unless he’s damned sure he’ll make a dozen friends in the process. Even then, he shouldn’t burn his bridges.”

He whacked his desk as though it wanted discipline. “Here’s what we’re going to do, Abel. You’re going to forget you ever breathed a word to me about your last meeting with young Bolt. Far as I’m concerned, it never happened. You say it, I’ll deny it. But you
won’t
say it. Because you’re going to forget about it yourself.” He took my measure with one eye narrowed and the other opened wide. “Never spoil a victory with regrets. As long as you win, the campaign’s been worthwhile. Remember that. It’s as true in a man’s life as it is in an election. Regrets are for people who can’t make up their minds.”

He drew a cigar from an inlaid box, but offered none to me. The fellow had known me long enough to recall that I shunned such vices. For his part, Mr. Seward was a chimney. His office was near as suffocating as that vault in which I had been sealed in New Orleans. He was so fond of his cigars I half expected our Navy to seize Havana.

That is a joke, of course. The United States will never seek an empire.

After lighting his roll of weeds, Mr. Seward sat back again and considered me. “I’ll handle Peabody,” he said. “Can’t tell him half of what you’ve told me. Maybe none of it. I don’t know. Shame you didn’t at least get the money back. Would’ve softened the blow. But I suppose that’s lost along with young Bolt.” He snorted, which passed for a laugh. “Next time you go down there, I bet you’ll hear all about the lost treasure of Do-Nothing Plantation. Doesn’t matter. I’ll figure something out, make old Peabody happy. As happy as he can be, under the circumstances.
Want to make sure he’s solidly behind us next year. He carries a lot of upstate voters with him. Can’t have him jumping to some damned Copperhead for spite.”

He stood up and began to reach across his desk to bid me farewell. Then he realized that our persons, when paired, were inadequate to bridge the expanse with dignity.

He stepped around the desk and thrust out his hand.

We clasped paws firmly. But he would not let me go when it seemed time.

“Now,” he said, “what’s all this foolery about you resigning your commission?”

“There is true,” I told him. “I do not feel that I have more to give, sir.”

He eyed me fiercely, gripping my hand with a strength you would not have credited in an older fellow.

“Suppose every damned officer felt that way? Suppose they all just up and went home? Where would we be then? You tell me that.”

“I cannot speak for others, but for myself—”

“Not thinking about going into Pennsylvania politics, are you? Damned snake pit. I’d be glad to put in a word with Boss McClure and Andy Curtin.”

“I do not believe that I am suited for politics.”

“Horseshit! You’re mean enough, that’s for damned sure. And you’re a grand master at convincing people you’re something you’re not. You even know when to wave the Bible and when to lay it aside. You’re a
born
political man, Abel Jones.”

“I do not mean to enter into politics.”

“More’s the pity.” He released my hand, which smarted a bit. “Change your mind, you let me know. Andy Curtin needs all the help he can get. Damn it, go see Lincoln. He’s got some news for you about that Reb lieutenant of yours. Get out of here. Or that damned Dutchman Nicolay’ll be all over me again. One thing I’ve learned in this town—one of many, tell the truth—is that no man should keep his president waiting.” He allowed himself a crafty little smile. “I wonder how long it’s going to
take Chase to figure that out? Tell Fred to come in, would you? Jesus Christ, I wish I was back in Albany.”

Mr. Seward was right. Twas time for my appointment across the way. But just as I was about to let myself out of his office, Mr. Seward cleared his throat and called my attention back toward his person.