The Titans (22 page)

ever heard of flour selling for fifteen dollars a barrel? Thursday it was four! Ain't no way we can serve bread to the boarders when we got to pay thieves" prices-was "No," Jephtha repeated. "She never sent it." "Then she lied to you. She promised." He kept his expression blank. "So I thought "Damn her." Molly's eyes grew moist as she gripped his hand again "Damn her." Jephtha said nothing. Silently, he'd uttered the same damnation a hundred times over. fi By Monday morning, Washington had the look of a deserted city. The streets were empty except for a last trickle of people departing; mostly on foot now. Though he had no means of filing copy, Jephtha felt he should still make his rounds, if only to keep from having to be alone with his thoughts. He went to the Executive Mansion around nine. Through the iron fence, he saw a dozen reporters lounging under the north portico. He showed his identification card to the civilian in charge of the four men standing watch at the gate. The men were members of Senator Lane's Frontier Guards. Their belts bristled with knives and revolvers. Putting his foot on a pile of sandbags, the duty officer returned Jephtha's card: "You fellows are to be admitted to the grounds. But that's all." Jephtha nodded wearily. Throughout the park, he spied other guards on duty at the entrances to the departmental buildings. He headed up a walk to the mansion. It was a damp, depressing morning. The sky was The Titans307 gray. A touch of mist hung fa the air, lending the park-and the city-a ghostly quality. He joined the reporters waiting at the portico. He lit a cigar. The wet breeze blew the smoke away in a blue stream. "Someone important expected?" he asked a man from the National Intelligencer, whose conservative proprietor had written editorials condemning the President's call for volunteers. "General Scott," the reporter said. "He's late." "Can't get those damn gouty legs of his into his boots," someone else joked. No one laughed. Abruptly, a tired-looking John Nicolay came through the doors. The reporters surged forward, shouting questions. Nicolay shouted louder: "I have no statement No information! The President's coming down, that's all." Grumbles; sullen glances. A sarcastic query: "Just to take the air?" Nicolay reacted with an uncharacteristic burst of petulance: "He does it as a courtesy to the general You know that!" They did. Lincoln was concerned about the health of the Army commander. He demonstrated his concern by meeting Scott at the door every time the general called. A correspondent from Greeley's Tribune asked: "What's the President's state of mind, John?" "I don't know why you're even bothering to ask when the telegraph wires are down." "Come on, John! Don't dodge the question!" yelled a man from the administration's strongest local supporter, the National Republican. Nicolay's lips whitened. "I'll say nothing for attribution-was "All right, damn it! Just tell us!" "The President is calm-was 308Behold the Darkness Groans interrupted him. Then another question: "John, is that an evasion? Or an outright lie?" Nicolay fumed: "That's the truth-whether you believe it or nott Of course he's concerned about the military situation. But he's a man of great strength." That didn't satisfy the newsmen either. Nicolay controlled his anger and tried to offer something more specific: "He does look out the office window a good deal." The Tribune man: "At what?" "At the Potomac." The quiet answer had a peculiar effect. There were no more questions for the moment. Nor any complaints. Inadvertently, Nicolay had captured what must be the essence of the President's mood: Worry. Worry that would draw his gaze to the river clouded with mist this morning. The open water represented the capital's one remaining link with the outside world. And across the Potomac, the President would be looking at enemy country- Finally someone said, "Can you tell us whether any communication has been established with General Butler and the troops supposedly at Annapol-?" Nicolay cut off the query with an upraised hand. Behind him, the door opened. Lincoln appeared. The President's ill-fitting black suit was more wrinkled than usual. His deep-set eyes were ringed with heavy shadows. Jephtha experienced a moment of piercing doubt. Was this awkward, nasal-voiced Illinois lawyer really strong enough-bright enough-to deal with the crisis confronting the country? Lincoln hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest and smiled: "Why, good morning, gentlemen. My, we've a pretty good lot of brains gathered here, eh, John? Especially for a Monday." The Titans309 "Yes, sir," Nicolay mumbled. "I told them we had no statement to ma-was The man from the Intelligencer interrupted: "Mr. President, isn't it true Washington's in great danger?" "Danger?" Lincoln said in that sleepy tone he sometimes affected. He rolled his tongue in his cheek. Jephtha sensed his effort to hide his feelings. He replied courteously to the abrasive question: "Henry, you know as well as I do-Washington City is well protected." Someone snickered. Lincoln paid no attention: "Besides, I haven't seen any Virginia army as yet If there is one lurking across the river, we could be in a bit of a scrape. But an army's not half so fearful as a lot of other things in this world. You know-was The disarming countryman's grin distorted the sallow face. "comthere's only one thing I'm really afraid of. Even though I know it can't hurt me." "What's that, sir?" "A woman." The laughter was polite, no more. The Harper's Weekly man kept up the pressure: "Sir, I still think the local citizens need reassurance that the troops from the North are on the way." The smile vanished from Lincoln's face. "I believe they are. We must take it on faith. I do confess that, last night, my own faith lapsed a little. With the telegraph cut, and no trains running through to Philadelphia or New York, I began to believe that maybe there wasn't any North." The reporters stood still, motionless and silent The comically high voice carried emotion anything but comic: "Yes, sir, I began to believe the Seventh New York Regiment was a myth--and the Rhode Island another. But that kind of thinking is a snare. It traps a man into 310Behold the Darkness doing nothing because he believes nothing. I spent half an hour with Tad and Willie just to get myself on the right track again. Worked! I have faith that Washington City will survive. I believe the Union will survive, and this terrible rift will be healed, and-was Abruptly, the sunken eyes darted toward the gate, where hoofs clattered and wheels creaked. General Scott's coupe swung toward the mansion, a military driver and a blue-clad rifleman on the high seat Lincoln came down to the bottom step. The reporters drew back. The coupe was reined to a halt. Nicolay and the rifleman helped the hard-breathing general alight The sight of Scott only deepened Jephtha's pessimism. The old veteran was a study in obesity and red-faced ruin. He grumbled greetings as Nicolay and the soldier literally lifted him up one step at a time to spare his legs. Lincoln waved to the reporters and followed the trio inside. The mansion doors closed. The reporters drifted off, not saying much. The Union will survive. This terrible rift will be healed. Walking through the curling mist, Jephtha wished he had Lincoln's faith. But his was gone. vui The day grew increasingly dreary, as if the elements had conspired to heighten the city's atmosphere of dread. He felt useless without constructive work. He went to Willard's for a while. He was the only customer. He talked with the bartender, who claimed to have a relative on General Scott's staff. Before the day was over, the bartender confided, Scott would receive the The Titans311 resignations of General Joe Johnston and Colonel Robert Lee, to add to scores of others. Jephtha finished his drink and wandered outside again. The whiskey did little to warm him against the gloom of the day-and nothing to elevate his spirits. He tramped the streets, paying no attention to where he was going. Sometime around noon he found himself at the Long Bridge. An occasional wagon laden with household goods creaked toward Virginia. To gain the bridge, the wagons had to pass between a pair of twelve-pound smoothbore Napoleons. The cannon pointed at the Potomac's far shore. A truculent artillery sergeant scowled as another wagon approached. The young man driving was having trouble with a nervous team. Beside him, his wife rocked a bundled infant. Something made the left horse shy. The horse nearly dragged the wagon into the nearest Napoleon. The sergeant shouted at the civilian: "Watch your fucking wagon! That's Federal property you're trying to damage!" "I'm not trying to damage anything," the young man panted, jerking the reins. He got the team under control. The hubs of the left wheels cleared the cannon by inches. Over Ms shoulder, the young man called, "All I want to do is get to Virginny-was "And that's where we're gonna bury you!" The young man flung down the reins; almost jumped from the seat. His wife held him back. The infant began to cry. Leaning against the bridge rail, Jephtha stared at the flushed Southerner, then the cold-eyed artilleryman. Somehow the small confrontation summed up the tragedy in which all of them were caught- Hatred was loose in the land. Because of it, his wife had betrayed him. His sons abominated him. And Gid- 312Behold the Darkness eon might fall, killed, in the holocaust that was surely coming. He watched the wagon blur and vanish in the mist hiding Virginia. As he turned and trudged back into the encircled city, he thought of the words of the prophet Isaiah. For, behold, the darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the people" IX The voice woke her around eleven that night: "Miz Molly! Please, Miz Molly-was A hand shook her. Without thinking, she said, "Jepbtha-T "It's Bertha." She struggled upright Saw the whiteness of Bertha's pupils accentuated by the glare of the lamp in her hand. A faint, foul odor permeated the bedroom. Molly brushed stray hair from her forehead. "Bertha, what's that stench?" "I don't know. That's why I come to get you. Smells like the place is on fire. Could it be them Virginians-?" Molly rushed to the windows, tugged the curtains aside. No sign of a fire, nearby or in the distance. "Will you hand me my wrapper?" The black woman brought it from the clothes press. Molly slipped into it, increasingly alarmed. The smoky odor came from the first floor. She patted the black woman's arm. "You wait here. Or in your room if you prefer." "Don't you go down there, Miz Molly! Might be Virginny soldiers all over the place!" "I don't think so. There's no noise." "I heard somebody clumpin' on the stairs not ten minutes ago." The Titans313 "Well, I'll see about it." She hurried to Jephtha's room. Started to knock and noticed the door was ajar. She called his name as she shoved the door open. The feeble gaslight showed her the room was empty. Had he gone out again? Was he the one Bertha had heard on the stairs? He'd come in around ten. Reeling drunk. He'd gone straight to bed, barely saying a word. She'd retreated to her own room, in despair about her inability to do anything to ease his misery. She slipped back down the corridor. The gas jets had been trimmed to their lowest level. The light was eerie, and her shadow huge on the wall beside her. Sweat made her palm slip on the bannister as she went down. She felt a draft on her bare feet. The front door stood open six inches. Orange light flickered on the carpet at the sitting room entrance. The smell was stronger. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Six steps to the bottom. Four. Two. One- She ran to the sitting room door. Looked in- No one there. Wind in the chimney puffed a gray cloud out of the fireplace. Sticks of kindling flamed and snapped apart. She walked slowly toward the hearth; stopped when she saw the source of the stench. A whisper: "Oh, Jephtha-was You'd better stick to saving string, Mrs. Emerson. When you try to save someone you love, you're a total failure. She knelt on the hearthstone, crying. Wisps of smoke curled from the Testament's charred cover. Nothing remained of the pages but ash. Interlude The Girl I left Behind Me MICHAEL BOYLE'S POCKET WATCH showed four o'clock but the We/chester woods were already dark. Westward, beyond the Hudson, thunder rumbled. The carriage bumped along the rutted road, banging him from one side to the other. It was the last Friday in April, and he'd been in a bad mood for days. His dark brown broadcloth suit-perhaps chosen unconsciously- Only his face, his white stock and his shirt bosom relieved the gloom of the carriage interior. Both windows were down, Michael's golden-brown eyes were fixed on the passing forest, but he saw few details. The breeze through the windows carried an aroma of spring earth and the scent of rain. An old portmanteau rested against his right foot. Inside it were toilet articles and carelessly packed evening wear. Julia insisted on a formal table at Kentland. Michael was still baffled about the reason Louis had summoned him up to the country. He didn't believe the pretext given in the note of invitation-a dinner party honoring the Kents' western manager, Israel Hope. Hope and his wife had arrived from California by steamer two days ago and had been whisked to the We/chester estate. Michael hadn't yet been introduced to the mulatto about whom Amanda had spoken at such length-and with much fondness.

The Titans315 The invitation was suspect on several counts. First, Hope had a wife of whom Julia disapproved; like Hope himself, the woman was part Negro. And her background, to say the least, lacked refinement. Hope had supposedly met her at a San Francisco theater. Louis always referred to her as a former variety-hall entertainer coma popular euphemism for prostitute. Beyond that, neither Theophilus Payne nor Dana Hughes, the man who managed the family's book publishing firm in Boston, would be present tonight-even though Israel Hope's narrative of his escape from slavery in Mississippi and his subsequent migration to California, where he'd met Amanda, had been one of the books responsible for the resurgence of Kent and Son after its repurchase from the Stovall estate. West to Freedom had been reprinted eighteen times. Read avidly in the North; damned and double-damned in the South. Since Theo Payne had been charged by the dying Amanda Kent to see that the book was issued, and Dana Hughes had overseen the actual publication, both men should have been included on the guest list Instead, Louis had mentioned that the Kents' banker, Joshua Rothman of Boston, would be present with his wife. Michael guessed business was the real reason for the party. What business? He had no idea. It was going to take an overnight visit to answer the question. Despite its mysterious purpose, the excursion was a welcome one. Michael was glad to be away from the city even for a few hours. Everywhere he went in New York, he saw red, white and blue bunting; recruiting offices operating in abandoned stores; men queuing up to answer Lincoln's call for troops. All of it induced guilt. A guilt born when the Seventh New York militia left for Washington earlier in the month. He remembered the occasion with acute discomfort. 313The Girl I Left Behind Me The Seventh had celebrated its departure with a two- mile, parade down Broadway. Thousands jammed both sides of the street, out of patriotism and because the Seventh was composed of young men from the city's elite families. Even now, as the carriage lurched and thunder boomed, Michael could clearly recall the incredible spectacle; hear the tumultuous cheering- The Seventh's, little brass howitzers had blazed with a sunlit luster that matched the glow of proud, excited faces. The men of the Seventh wore trim gray uniforms, immaculate pipe-clayed cross belts, kid gloves Each soldier's knapsack contained sandwiches prepared by the Delmonico kitchens. Chance, placed Michael alongside a thick-lipped woman on the parade route. She applauded and shrieked as the Seventh's band went by, drums keeping the cadence, horns blaring the rousing tune of "The Girl I Left Behind Me." Flushed, the woman had turned to speak to him: "All the young men are going, it seems. My son's going with a company of Zouaves from his firenouse." Michael evaded her eyes. "Commendable." "Aren't you going?" "No, madam, I'm not." She didn't speak to him again. He remembered thinking, I'm staying because there's a gentleman named Louis Kent comwho needs to be watched. The excuse didn't erase the memory of the woman's scorn. The Seventh had boarded ships for Annapolis; had landed and tramped overland to a rail junction, helping General Ben Butler's Eighth Massachusetts repair damaged track en route; and had finally reached Washington. According to dispatches sent by Jephtha after-the reopening of the Baltimore telegraph service, the arrival of the Seventh had ended a week of fear generated by the specter of invasion from Virginia, The panic dissipated The Titans317 the instant the first squads climbed off the cars in the capital. Busy preparing a Stovall Works bid for a government steel contract, Michael kept trying to convince himself he was needed in New York. Louis did bear watching; he was already engaged in extensive correspondence with the Lacroix brothers in Louisiana-technically enemy territory now. After the sharp exchange on election night, Louis had kept his communication with the Lao roixs completely private. He didn't even employ his male secretary to recopy his letters. He was definitely up to something; perhaps something illegal- The carriage creaked out of the trees and onto a somewhat smoother road which ran along the bluffs near Tarrytown. Not far to Kentland, thank heaven. He ached from the long, rough ride. On the west side of the Hudson, trees crowned the heights above the unseen river. Above them, fat black clouds rolled in. The gusty wind rocked the coach. Storm coming- Aren't you going? No matter how he concocted excuses, his guilt wouldn't leave him. In spite of martial music, Delmonico sandwiches and camp stools covered in velvet, the war showed signs of lasting longer than ninety days. An eighth state had joined the Confederacy. Jephtha's latest dispatches said Tennessee, North Carolina and Arkansas looked virtually certain to follow Virginia's lead within the next month. The polarized border states-Missouri, Kentucky, Delaware and Maryland-were also danger points. They might go; they might not. In either case, each could become the scene of fierce partisan fighting. Payne had told him Jephtha was trying to confirm a rumor that Lincoln had already granted General Scott permission to suspend the writ of habeas corpus where 318The Girl I Left Behind Me "treasonous combinations'" could be expected to take acgon against the Federal government One of those places was surely Maryland. Something was wrong with Jephtha's recent work, though. Both Michael and the editor noted a new, exceptionally pessimistic tone to his stories. Payne was forced to edit out dour paragraphs of speculation about the potential savagery of a military clash. Though still pleased that the South had finally forced a war, Payne was tolerant of Jephtha's temporary aberration: "How can a man with sons in Virginia not be depressed by the sight of soldiers and more soldiers?" How indeed? Aren't you going? In truth, Michael had thought quite seriously about enlisting during the days immediately after Sumter's fall. He'd delayed because of Louis-and thus lost his best opportunity. Following the surrender of the fort, some sixty-five hundred Irishmen had rushed to Hibernian Hall, and Corcoran's 69th New York had closed its rolls. The regiment had embarked from North River on the twenty- third of April and was now camped somewhere in Washington. Oh, there was one group still being recruited. The officer in charge was Tom Meagher of Fifth Avenue, the Irish expatriate, journalist and lecturer. Meagher had been strongly pro-Southern until General Beauregard's attack at Charleston. Soon after he heard of it, he began organizing a company of Irish Zouaves destined to join the 69th as soon as possible. No doubt Meagher's rolls were already closed too- Another excuse! He couldn't escape the persistent feeling that he was somehow less than a man because he was hanging back while thousands of others stepped The Titans319 forward to help put down the threat to Constitutional government. He peered out the window as the carriage dipped through a low place in the road. The great trees on the far bluffs whipped in the rising wind. Deep within the boiling black clouds, he saw occasional flickers of lightning. AREN'T YOU GOING? Scowling, he whacked his fist against the carriage door. The entire side vibrated. Misinterpreting it as a signal of impatience, Joel hawed to the horse. The carriage picked up speed, hurling Michael against the opposite wall, then bouncing him upward. His head banged the ceiling. "Goddamn it!" Joel slowed down. But Michael remained in ill humor. It was hardly a good beginning for his visit Kentland had been built of white marble and envy. Louis Kent had wanted a country home even more splendid and spacious than The Knoll-sometimes referred to as Paulding's Folly-a little further along the river: The Knoll had been the wonder of the countryside ever since Alexander Jackson Davis, one of the prime movers of the Gothic Revival, had designed it for former New York mayor William Paulding in 1838. Louis had hired one of Davis" best pupils to outdo the baronial magnificence of the Paulding house. This the designer had done. He had placed his creation at the top of a gently sloping hill, which had been cleared to afford an almost uninterrupted view down to the point where the cliffside plunged to the river. Popular as it was, Michael loathed the architectural style. Kentland was a jumble of turrets, gables and pinnacles, heavy with Tudor ornamentation and stained 320The Girl I Left Behind Me glass. The house was dominated by a square and massive central tower. The total effect reminded him of drawings of the grandiose new St. Patrick's Cathedral, proposed in 1850 by Archbishop Hughes and still unfinished on upper Fifth Avenue at Fiftieth Street. Kent- land was a shrine, not a home. As the carriage swung up the curving drive, he noticed lamps lit in many of the downstairs rooms. The lights shone behind ruby or aquamarine glass-the only touches of color in a sweep of pale stone, dark land and sky. The carriage stopped beneath the marble archway protecting the main entrance. The right-hand door jerked open. Michael's normally pleasant face soured again. Not one but two liveried footmen stood outside. One reached in to take his portmanteau. Both murmured obsequious greetings. He wondered whether Julia coached them on how to be polite and condescending at the same time. His worn bag was whisked into the vaulted entrance hall. There, a butler stood at attention as Julia came dashing toward him, hoop skirt a-tilt and a disarming smile on her doll's face: "Dear Michael! I'm so glad you're here-the weather's turning absolutely foul. When it rains, the roads to Kentland are quagmires. I was afraid you might not arrive in time for dinner-was "I left Madison Square a little early for just that reason." One footman marched up the immense carpeted staircase with his portmanteau. He and Julia stood beneath a chandelier whose candles were still unlit; gas wasn't available this far from the city. Julia looked unusually pretty and animated. Her cheeks showed a slight flush. Her blue eyes were warm as she strained up on tiptoe for an obligatory kiss: "I'm very glad," The Titans321 There was a moment's awkwardness. As he bent toward her, she tilted her head slightly. Without meaning to, he kissed her full on the mouth. He drew back quickly. He was unsettled by the sensual quality of the brief contact. Had he imagined it, or had her lips been slightly parted? He rubbed a nervous finger across his chin. Quite unconsciously, he'd responded to the pressure of her mouth by kissing her harder than he'd intended- Fortunately the servants were paying no attention. The butler and the other footman had disappeared into the library. The smell of a wood fire drifted from its open doors. Julia smiled at him. She'd achieved a little victory; the first such victory he could recall. He was furious with her-and with himself. She didn't give a damn for him. But she'd wanted a response, and she'd gotten it "Wicks will show you to your room," she said as the butler emerged from the library. "We'll dine at seven. Provided the Rothmans have arrived." "Mr. Hope and his wife are here, aren't they?" "Yes. Louis Is showing them the stables and the grounds. Clotilde is a lovely woman-for a nigra." "Can you really tell she's Negro? I'd heard otherwise." "Oh, there's no doubt," Julia said. He was again annoyed because his eye was drawn to her small, high breasts. "Her lips show it-and all her French mannerisms can't hide it You'll see." "Wasn't her home originally New Orleans?" "Yes, before she went to California to take up her-ah comprofession." "Perhaps she's one of those women they call quadroons or octoroons. I've heard they're lovely creatures. I can't wait to meet her. I'm always more at home with people who were born poor." That made her angry-as he'd intended. Her smile 322The Girl I Left Behind Me froze. His was genuine as he walked toward the staircase. He'd salved the guilt he felt because of his lapse during the kiss. A few minutes later, though, as he unpacked in a second-floor bedroom where he'd stayed before, he no longer felt quite so pleased. In fact he felt decidedly uneasy. Maybe it was the gloom of the day. Two glowing oil lamps did little to dispel it. Even when the sun shone, the great arched window overlooking the Hudson let in very little light; the window was a sort of mural crowded with bits of dark stained glass arranged to represent typical Gothic subjects-ruined churches, monasteries and the like. But he couldn't blame the weather for very long. In one swift moment; arrogant, shallow little Julia had aroused him. He found himself recalling the contours of her fragile but well-proportioned body as they kissed beneath the chandelier. He was ashamed she'd touched a nerve; even more ashamed that he was still thinking of her. Hell, you're giving it more importance than it deserves. Any reasonably attractive woman would have caused that kind of response. The thought eased his conscience. It had been almost a year since he'd bedded a girl-a lithe, good-humored little actress who'd been appearing in Boucicault's The Colleen Bawn- Stop lying to yourself, my lad. It was Julia who did it, no one else. He flung his evening suit in the wardrobe and slammed the door. An unexpected clap of thunder made him start. Chri/i He was as nervous as a cat cornered by a mastiff. He didn't like the way the visit had begun. He didn't like it at all. The Titans323 in In a dazzle of crystal and silver, dinner was served at the scheduled hour. The Rothmans had come down from Boston on a coasting vessel. Their carriage had arrived from the North River piers a little after five. Louis welcomed the guests in the drawing room shortly before seven. Michael was introduced to Israel Hope, an emaciated man with Negroid features and a yellowish cast to his skin. The mulatto didn't seem the least awed by his surroundings. His formal suit, while obviously not as expensive as his host's, fitted him well. He looked, and acted, as if he'd worn such clothing all his life. Michael took to him instantly. Hope's wife Clotilde was short, bright-eyed and exceptionally pretty; an altogether winning woman Michael judged to be about thirty-ten or twelve years younger than her husband. Except for the fullness of her lips and her coffee-and-cream skin, she could have passed for white. An octoroon, he decided. With ingenuous enthusiasm, she described the thrill of the steamer trip from California and spoke of the wonders yet to be discovered in New York. She particularly wanted to visit Barnum's Museum, to see the famous midget, Major Thumb. The Rothmans, of course, Michael knew welt Joshua was a lean man with a ready smile and delicate hands. Since their last meeting some six months ago, the banker had grown a luxuriant