THE TITANS
"We cannot separate. We cannot remove our
respective sections from each other ..."
Abraham Lincoln's words were to resound in the house
of Kent, where young Louis Kent, heir to an
American dynasty, and his bride Julia were full
of dreams and aspirations; and Jephtha Kent, now
journalist for the Northern family newspaper
Union, would see his three sons turn violently
against him and take up the Southern cause. As the
nation struggled, so would the Kents. ...
Gideon, the soldier, torn between his consuming
desire to serve the new Confederacy and his love for a
woman who preaches peace ... Jephtha,
whose one-time wife has married a fanatical
Southerner, turned his own sons against him, and
seemingly involved herself in a plot to destroy him
.. .louis, for whom the war is not a matter of
freedom or slavery, union or disunion, but an
opportunity to build a new, richer Kent
empire by extracting ruthless profit from the agony of
both sides ... Michael Boyle, family
"friend," who finds himself thrust into the heart of the war between
the states and the war between the Kents ... and looming over
all, the titanic, tragic figure of Lincoln,
Lee, and Davis, locked in a combat that will forever
determine the course of the nation.
The Kent Family Chronicles
With all the color and sweep of American history
itself, THE TITANS continues The Kent Family
Chronicles--a mighty saga of heroism and
dedication, patriotism and valor, shining spirit and
abiding faith.
Here is the story of our nation-and an amazing family
living in the turbulent times that began the American
Experience.
This magnificent series of novels is more than
absorbing, entertaining reading-it is a resounding
affirmation of the greatness of America.
NOVELS IN THE SERIES THE BASTARD 1
THE REBELS 2 THE SEEKERS 3 THE
FURIES 4 THE TITANS 5 THE
WARRIORS 6 THE LAWLESS 7 THE
AMERICANS 8
THE TITANS
JOHN JAKES
THE KENT FAMILY CHRONICLES VOLUME
V
A JOVE BOOK
THE TITANS
A Jove book published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Four previous printings
Jove edition August 1978
Seventeenth printing March 1982
All rights reserved. Copyright (c) 1976
by John Jakes and Book Creations, Inc.
Produced by Lyle Kenyon Engel
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in
part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without
permission.
For information address: Jove Publications, Inc.,
200 Madison Avenue, New York,
N. Y. 10016.
ISBN: 0-515-06481-5 Library of Congress
Catalog Card Number: 76-17349
Jove books are published by Jove
Publications, Inc.,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, N.
Y. 10016. The words
"A JOVE BOOK" and the J with sunburst are
trademarks
belonging to Jove Publications, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA
For my daughter Victoria
Contents
Prologue
THE NIGHT OF THE RAIL
SPLITTER15
Book One BLACK APRIL
Chapter I "AN OATH REGISTERED IN
HEAVEN"57
Chapter II COLONEL LEE84
Chapter III MOLLY'S HOPE116
Chapter IV FAN'S FEAR134
Chapter V THE RIOT162
Chapter VI THE DETECTIVES186
Chapter VII O ABSALOMFF205
Chapter VIII THE BAIT230
Chapter IX BLOODY BALTIMORE253
Chapter X ACCUSATION274
Chapter XI BEHOLD THE DARKNESS 295
Interlude
THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND
MEEA314
Book Two RED JULY
Chapter ICITY AT THE EDGE OF
WAR361
Chapter IITHE AMATEUR CAVALIER387
Chapter IIITHE TIGERSBLEDJE
Chapter IVLOST LOVEBLEDBC
Chapter VWITH JEB STUART444
Chapter VI8THE BALL 75- OPEN"BLEDGE
Chapter VIIRIDE TO GLORYBLEDIE
Chapter VIIITHE WATERS OF WRATH517
Chapter IXTHE WOUNDED539
Chapter XTHE MURDERER562
Chapter XI "AND IF A HOUSE BE
DIVIDED-BY 595
Chapter XII THE BETTER ANGELS615
Epilogue
CAPTAIN KENT, C. S. A. 629
A KENT FAMILY TREE 638-639
(volumes I through Very)
"Physically speaking, we cannot separate. We cannot
remove our respective sections from each other,
nor build an impassable wall between them. A
husband and wife may be divorced, and go out of the
presence, and beyond the reach of each other; but the different
parts of our country cannot do this ...
"We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be
enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not
break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of
memory, stretching from every battle-field and
patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone,
all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus
of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be,
by the better angels of our nature."
March 4, 1861: Abraham Lincoln, speaking
to the nation at his first inaugural.
"The political hostilities of a generation were now
face to face with weapons instead of words."
November, 1884: P. G. T. Beauregard,
General, C. S. A., writing on First
Manassas for the Century Magazine.
The Titans
Prologue The Night of the Rail
Splitter
Prologue
AT NINE-THIRTY ON ELECTION NIGHT,
1860, Michael Boyle walked out of the Bull's
Head Tavern at Forty-fourth Street and
Lexington Avenue in New York City. His
carriage was waiting. His driver, Joel, stood
talking with a street vendor beside a small iron
stove equipped with wheels and pushcart handles. The
smell of roasting yams rose from the stove. The
coals glowing beneath the grill burnished Joel's
black skin with orange highlights.
Michael knotted the ties of his plain woolen
cloak. For November, the weather was unusually
mild, and the cloak wasn't necessary tonight. Sounds
carried on the night breeze: the clatter of a
passing brewer's dray; the clang of a bell on a
late horsecar over on Third; the lowing of
cattle in the stockyard pens immediately behind the hotel.
The Bull's Head served the best beef in town and
poured the best lager. Michael liked the
unpretentious atmosphere of the crowded taproom
where drovers in muddy boots and butchers in
red-stained smocks tossed down a last drink before
traveling home. All in all, Michael
found the Bull's Head more comfortable than the elegant
restaurants where a man of his position would be
likely to dine. He'd driven this far uptown tonight
because he'd hoped dinner at the Bull's Head would
relieve his fatigue, his sense of failure and
foreboding.
It hadn't

16Prologue
Joel stepped forward. "Ready, Mr. Michael?"
His employer nodded. "We goin" down to the paper
to see who won?
"We're going-though I don't expect there's much
doubt about the outcome."
Joel didn't comment. It was obvious Michael was
upset.
Michael Boyle was six feet tall and
thirty-one years old. He had fair hair and a
handsome face. Women said the long horizontal scar
on his forehead added to his rakish good looks. But
tonight those good looks were marred by dark circles under his
golden-brown eyes. One thought kept running through his
mind:
Three and a half hours. Three and a half
goddamn hours. And I failed.
He had done everything but fan on his knees in
front of the board of directors of The Stovall
Works, the steel manufacturing firm in which the Kent
family held a twenty-five percent interest He
wasn't as upset about having to tell Louis as much
as he was by a feeling of personal inadequacy. If
Amanda Kent had been alive, she could have overcome
the board's conservatism with the natural force of her
personality. But he wasn't Mrs. A's equal
in turning aside nay-sayers and perhaps never would be.
"I don't know why I worry it so, he thought as
he walked to the carriage. There's a much worse
problem afoot tonight-
As he put his boot on the step, the
sweet-potato seller tapped his arm.
"Yes?"
"A while ago, Mr. Boyle, two roughnecks
were standing across the way watching the carriage. We
don't get many rigs this fancy up here any more."
"Where'd the men go?"
"Didn't see. Neither did Joel. Just watch
yourself for a few blocks."
The Titans17
"We will, thank you." Michael handed him a gold
coin and climbed inside. He completely
forgot about the warning until the robbers struck.
As the carriage neared the corner of Forty-third
Street, someone whistled in the dark. Michael was
too preoccupied to pay much attention.
Joel turned the carriage west. On the right,
cattle pens slipped by, the smell of manure
drifting through the open window. Slouched on the seat,
Michael wasn't aware of the carriage slowing
until he heard someone yell:
"Pull up! There's a man hurt yonder-was
Michael hammered his fist on the ceiling. "Joel,
don't stop!"
The order came too late. The driver had already
jerked the reins and booted the brake. The carriage
lurched to a halt in the rutted side street
"Somebody's lyin' in the road, Mr. Michael,"
Joel called. Looks like he-was
"Shut up and raise your hands."
The shout came from the same man who'd yelled before.
He appeared from behind the carriage-a man in a wool
cap and worn coat. As Michael started to open the
door, the man shoved a revolver in Michael's
face.
Michael cursed himself for not returning to Madison
Square after the board meeting to get a gun.
He knew it wasn't safe to travel this far
uptown after the sun went down. And Joel was a
churchgoer who hated firearms and refused to carry
one.
"Climb out," ordered the man at the window. He
backed away, his face a blur in the darkness.
"Slow and careful, my boy-was
Michael obeyed, bending so he could get through the
18Prologue
door without bumping his head. Left boot on the
step and the door half open, he glanced to the right.
He saw a second man scrambling up in front
of the carriage- evidently the fellow who had
pretended to be injured.
"They got guns, Mr. Michael," Joel said from
the driver's seat.
"And if we weren't so damn full of Christian
virtue we would too."
"Shut your fucking face and get down, lad."
Michael detected a familiar lilt in the man's
speech. He tried to take advantage of it:
"Is that any way for one Irishman to treat
another?"
"Irishman, shit," the man said. "You're not a good
one if you got a nigger driving for you. A
Black Republican's what you are, most like.
That'll make emptying your pockets twice the
pleasure."
Michael was dismayed by the hatred in the man's
voice. But he understood it. Once he'd harbored
such hatred himself.
When he'd first gone to work for Amanda Kent as a
confidential clerk, he'd disliked Negroes;
disliked even more the idea that they were entitled to the same
rights as white men. His prejudice was natural
enough. All the Irish immigrants pouring into New
York had a difficult time finding jobs. Thousands
of freed Negroes suddenly added to the labor
market only increased the competition.
Amanda had talked to him about that-at length- and slowly
convinced him that if the principles of liberty for which
her grandfather Philip had fought meant anything at
all, those principles had to apply to all
Americans. He'd finally concluded she was right Now
he thought as she had. He thought as a Kent-
And Kents always objected to intrusions such as
robbery. Objected strongly.
"Gonna be a handsome day's work, Paddy," said the
second man, out of sight at the front right side
of the
The Titans19
coach. "I voted six times fer the Democracy.
An' we're gonna top it off with a nice haul
of-was
"Quit your goddamn yap!" The thief beside the
coach extended his arm full length. The revolver
pointed at Michael's belly. His palms itched.
Yes, he's close enough-
"And you! Get off that step!"
"All right."
Michael put both feet on the step and shoved the
carriage door-hard. Its edge hit the muzzle
of the thief's revolver and knocked it aside.
The gun went off. The horse reared and whinnied as the
ball shattered splinters of wood from the left
front wheel. Michael jumped.
"Jesus Christ!" the second thief cried,
terrified by the rearing horse. Michael crashed against
the man outside the coach. Heard the pop of
Joel's whip, then a shriek from the other robber.
He fell on top of the man in the cap. They
struggled and the robber cursed as he tried to maneuver
the revolver for a shot. Michael brought his right hand
over and grabbed the man's gun wrist. The muzzle
wavered dangerously close to his eyes.
He forced it away. But the robber was strong. He
broke Michael's grip and smacked the gun
barrel against the left side of Michael's forehead.
Pain dizzied Michael and he felt blood
running into his eyebrow-
The robber's cap fell off as they struggled.
Michael was still half on top of the other man. Dust
from the street clouded up, choking him. Joel's whip
popped a second time. Michael heard distant
yelling from the Bull's Head. The cattle lowed
louder, kicking the pens.
The robber lifted his knee toward Michael's
groin. Michael twisted away. He shifted his right
hand to the robber's throat, his left to the gun wrist,
and closed his fingers like claws. The robber began
to gag and thrash from side to side.
20Prologue
"Joel?" Michael shouted, nearly out of breath.
"I whupped the other one, Mr. Michael. He
run off."
Running footsteps. Joel hurrying to his aid?
Michael turned his head-a mistake. The robber
wrenched his arm free and shoved the revolver near
Michael's cheek. Only a quick reflex-a jerk
backward, a wild roll- saved Michael
from taking a shot in the head.
The second shot started the horse bucking and lunging
even more wildly. "Toss me the whip and grab the
reins!" Michael shouted, scrambling up. The
robber had gotten to his knees. The darkness hid his
gun. But Michael was sure it was aimed straight
at him.
The stiff-handled whip struck his shoulder. He
fumbled for it, missed. He bent over. The robber's
gun roared a third time.
Michael felt the ball stir the air near his head.
He found the whip, arced his right arm back, then
forward, laying the lash across the robber's face.
The man howled then tried to yank the whip from
Michael's hand. Michael flung the handle. The
robber flailed, entangled. Stooped over to present
a smaller target, Michael lunged forward. At
the last instant he straightened. He kicked the
robber between the legs, then clamped both hands on the
man's right arm. He smashed the arm against his
upraised knee. Bone cracked.
The robber dropped his gun, doubling over. Michael
kicked him hard in the belly. Ribs snapped. The
robber retched, staggered to his feet and fled into a
vacant lot on the south side of
Forty-third Street
Enraged and gasping, Michael found the gun. He
hurled it after the thief with all his strength. He
heard it land in the weeds where the robber had disappeared.
"You all right, Mr. Michael?" Joel asked,
struggling to hang onto the reins and soothe the horse.
"Just splendid," Michael lied. "You?"
"That fellow didn't touch me."
The Titans21
"Good."
He was beginning to shake. He threw the whip. Joel
caught it with one hand. Men from the Bull's Head were
rounding the corner at Lexington.
"Let's get away from here before we have to answer a
lot of fool questions."
Michael slammed the door and sprawled on the
seat, a kerchief pressed against the gash on his
forehead. Joel clambered to his place, popped the
whip- "Giddap!"-and the carriage left the
approaching men behind.
Gradually, Michael's breathing slowed. His head
ached. He was filthy with dust. The cut was bleeding.
But that was the extent of the damage. Except to his
sensibilities. The assault itself hadn't been
half so unnerving as the viciousness he
remembered in the robber's voice:
You got a nigger driving for you. A Black
Republican's what you are.
Hate, that's all there is in the country any more, he
thought. And how much worse will it be by the time the sun's
up tomorrow?
His failure at the board meeting was forgotten as he
asked himself why God had ever permitted the black
man to be brought to America. To test her? Well,
she showed every sign of failing the test. The black
man's presence and the storm of conflict it had created
seemed about to cause a disruption greater than anything
seen since the Revolution.
You can take part of the blame, he reminded himself. You
voted for Mr. Abraham Lincoln.
Joel drove down Fifth Avenue, past the high
wooden walls of the Croton Reservoir at
Forty-second Street,
22Prologue
and into the expanding residential district of the
well-to- do. The carriage rattled along the west
side of Madison Square, but Michael hardly
glanced at the lighted windows of the mansion on the east
side of the square, where he lived. The rest of the
trip took him down Broadway, past
City Hall Park, to Printing House Square.
There, Michael climbed out in front of a familiar
three-story building. Over its main entrance hung
a wooden signboard carrying the design of a
stoppered green bottle about a third full of something
dark. The brown paint represented tea. This had
been the symbol of the Kent family's printing house
since the Revolutionary War. The board's gilt
lettering spelled out THE NEW YORK UNION
"You can drive home, Joel Louis and Julia will
be joining me later. They'll take me back
to Madison Square."
"Sure you aren't hurt, Mr. Michael?"
"No, thanks to your courage and quick action. Good
night, Joel."
The Negro slapped the reins over the horse's
back and the carriage rumbled off. Michael stood
on the Walk, tugging gently at the kerchief now
stuck to his wound. Finally he gave it a yank and
swore. He balled the bloodied fabric in his
hand. It was turning out to be a hell of an evening.
He didn't want to go upstairs. He lingered a
moment, surveying the square. It was deserted. On
the far side, he saw two men dart inside the
door of Greeley's Tribune. Half
a minute later, another man hurried into the Times.
Reporters, no doubt. Bringing early ballot
totals from the telegraph office of the Associated
Press. The New York Union had money enough
to pay for private wires.
Finally he turned and walked in. The small
reception lobby was empty. Beyond a closed door,
the presses
The Titans23
thumped, churning out the inside pages of the morning
edition.
Michael climbed the front stair to the second
floor editorial office, a huge, gloomy
chamber with sparsely scattered gas fixtures,
rows of disorderly desks and one private cubicle
back in a corner. At the rear of the office an
open arch led to a smaller room where the telegraph
sounders chattered.
The editorial office was empty save for a copy
boy reading a new Beadle dune novel, a clerk
washing down a slate board that had been brought in
to display the returns and a lone reporter scribbling
out an article. Most of the other members of the
reportorial staff were scattered throughout the city's
wards, or posted at the headquarters of the
two major parties.
The three people in the room all noticed Michael's
gashed forehead and dusty, disheveled clothes. The
reporter seemed about to ask a question. But he
didn't- perhaps because the Irishman looked so severe.
An oil lamp glowed behind the wooden wall of the
corner cubicle. Michael entered without knocking.
"Lord God, what happened to you?" Theophilus
Payne exclaimed from behind his littered desk.
"A minor altercation with two stalwarts of the One and
Indivisible Democracy. Not only did they
vote several times for Mr. Douglas, they also
tried to cap the evening by relieving me of my pocket
money up near the Bull's Head."
Payne chuckled. "You do have a penchant for the seamy
parts of town."
"My natural habitat," Michael growled,
sinking into a chair.
Payne put down his pen, got up and "circled the
desk to peer at Michael's clotted wound. The
Union's editor was only in his middle forties.
But overindulgence had lined his face and blotched his
thick pink nose. His shirt bore traces of his
evening meal. His breath smelled of
24Prologue
whiskey. If Michael had been standing, Payne's
head would barely have reached his shoulder.
"Are you feeling all right?"
"I won't be if I have to answer that tiresome question
all evening. Yes, I am. Got any returns
yet?"
"Nothing conclusive." Payne showed Michael the
foolscap sheet on which he'd been writing. "But
I've roughed out tomorrow's headlines anyway."
Michael scanned the series of headlines that would be
set in diminishing type sizes and would occupy the
position reserved for the day's most important
story-the left column of the six that made up the
front page:
LINCOLN ELECTED.
NEW PARTY WINS IN SECOND NATIONAL
CAMPAIGN.
Sweeps Northeast And Northwest
Victory Also Predicted In California,
Oregon.
Adverse Southern Reaction Reported By Our
Correspondents.
Michael tossed the foolscap on the desk.
"Sure you're not being premature?"
Payne grinned. "My boy, Mr.
Lincoln's already won the state elections in
Maine, Vermont, Indiana-and most important,
Pennsylvania. They were all held weeks ago,
remember?" He screwed up his face. "Are you
sure that altercation didn't addle your wits?
He's in backslash was
The Titans25
"I wonder if it'll be a good thing."
"May I be so bold as to ask what party you voted
for, Mr. Boyle?"
"You know I voted Republican."
"And you're already doubting the wisdom of it?"
"Yes, I'm doubtful because-hell, never mind. Hand
me that bottle you keep hidden in the desk."
Puzzled, Payne produced the bottle, then
bustled away to the telegraph room. Michael
tilted his chair against the partition and took a long
swallow. Grimaced. Ghastly stuff.
He'd meant what he said to Theo Payne. He was
doubtful that Abraham Lincoln's election would be
beneficial to the country. It might be necessary. But
beneficial? No.
Though his Irish background should have put him with the
Northern faction of the hopelessly divided
Democrats, he'd voted Republican
because he believed in the guiding principle of the
six-year-old, clearly sectional party formed from a
peculiar coalition of rabid abolitionists, more
moderate Free-Soilers, antislavery men from the
defunct Whig party, anti-Nebraska
Democrats and even a few anti-Catholic
Know-Nothings.
Little in the Republican platform had excited
Michael. He agreed with the party's support of a
transcontinental railroad to link the East with the
new states on the Pacific. But that plank, and the
one expressing a willingness to spend money for
internal improvements, wouldn't have been enough to change
his traditional allegiance to the other side.
Michael had voted Republican principally because
the party stood for containing the expansion of slavery.
He'd cast his vote with an awareness of its possible
consequences. Some of the Southern states actually
wanted the Illinois lawyer elected almost as
badly as did the Northern ones. But the reasons were
sharply different
26Prologue
He replaced the whiskey bottle in the desk
drawer and went out into the editorial room. Within an
hour it would be packed with frantic men
writing page one copy for Payne's approval.
The pace wouldn't diminish until almost two-thirty
in the morning when the last locked form would go to the
pressroom. Now, though, the silence seemed almost
ominous-
Payne came hurrying up one of the aisles.
Gleeful, he thrust a tally sheet into Michael's
hand. "Just received reports from some of the upstate
counties. Rochester's turned in a majority for
Old Abe. The rest of the state's tending the same
way."
"Got anything from the men down South?"
"Not yet."
Payne took back the paper. Michael felt
increasingly depressed.
Four presidential candidates had emerged from the
unsettled summer of 1860. The Southern wing of the
Democracy had rejected Douglas-the Little
Giant- whose initially appealing popular
sovereignty doctrine had plunged the Kansas
territory into armed strife several years earlier.
Douglas" sincere if ultimately disastrous
belief in the supreme power of the people had found
expression in the Kansas-Nebraska Act of
1854. In essence, the act had overturned
the 1820 Missouri Compromise and re-established
a principle of Congressional nonintervention with
slavery. The Douglas bill permitted the
legislatures of new territories to allow or
deny the presence of slaves.
Douglas' opponents had claimed the senator's
proposals had shabby political overtones.
Even as far back as the early 1850's, Congress
had been studying the feasibility of a cross-country
railroad. Proponents of a Southern route, led
by President Pierce's Secretary of War, the
former Senator Jefferson Davis, had finally
swung their support to an alternate route running
west from Chicago. The Little Giant's enemies
took pleasure
The Titans27
in noting that he owned a good deal of land along what
might become the northern right-of-way. They suggested
he'd pushed popular sovereignty legislation
to appease the South in return for its endorsement of the
rail route that might bring him a huge real estate
profit
The result of the tangled compromising had been
"bleeding Kansas"-where pro-slavery settlers
battled abolitionists and Free-Soilers
supplied with carbines from the East. The carbines were
shipped in crates labeled Contents-Bibles.
Beecher's Bibles, both sides called them.
To purchase them, the abolitionist minister Henry
Ward Beecher had raised money among his radical
friends.
Douglas' populist philosophy rapidly lost
its appeal for the Southern extremists. It didn't
go far enough. They not only wanted a free choice
on slavery, but also a guarantee of its protection
in new territories. That, the Douglas
Democrats wouldn't give. So the dissident
Southerners walked out of the April nominating convention
in Charleston and two months later put forth their own
candidate-Breckenridge of Kentucky.
A third candidate, Bell, hastily formed the
Constitutional Union Party. But it was really
pledged to little more than what its name suggested-vague
support of the Constitution and perpetual union.
The Republicans had also tried to keep their
platform moderate. But they'd doggedly refused
to compromise on the plank that had persuaded
Michael to switch his vote. The Republicans
rejected the Douglas doctrine or any doctrine
that might open new territories to slavery.
Thus, with the nation offered four choices, simple
arithmetic suggested the purely sectional
Republicans had the strength to win with the generally
unknown Illinois politician. Lincoln might
not draw a majority of the popular vote. But
by carrying the free states, he should
28Prologue
be able to accumulate the electoral votes needed
to gain him the Presidency.
And although Mr. Lincoln was generally as moderate as
his platform, his election could well turn out to be the
worst thing that could happen to a country already angered and
torn by the violence and unrest over the slave question.
Open warfare had swept back and forth across the
Kansas-Missouri border; there had been the
inflammatory Dred Scott decision of '57, with
which the Supreme Court had in effect denied black
men the rights enjoyed by white citizens, including the
right to sue for personal liberty in court. Then
came the bizarre attempt by the murdering
abolitionist, Brown, to seize the Harper's Ferry
arsenal the preceding year. There was a constant outpouring
of abolitionist-propaganda in books and
pamphlets, sermons and lectures. The Underground
Railroad continued to operate in defiance
of the fugitive slave laws. And then physical
violence had erupted on the floor of Congress.
All these and more had pushed the conflict to the flash
point
Lincoln had gone a certain distance in his attempts
to be conciliatory. He made it clear he wouldn't
tamper with the "peculiar institution" in the South. But
he also wouldn't permit its spread. Southerners
knew it. And tonight they were watching his ascendancy
to power.
"I think we owe ourselves a drink to celebrate,"
Payne declared, lurching back to his cubicle and
stumbling into his chair. Michael folded his arms and
leaned against the door.
"I'm not so sure festivities are called for,
Theo. Besides, you look like you've been celebrating
all evening."
"So I have, so I have! The editor of an
influential newspaper should have a few
privileges. Especially when his candidate's
winning!"
Payne nearly dropped the bottle as he pulled
it out of
The Titans29
the drawer. He wasn't an out-and-out
drunkard. But he kept himself perpetually fortified.
It never seemed to impair his performance. He was
considered a first-class newsman by his employees
as well as by his colleagues on New York's
rival newspapers. Even the crusty Greeley
admired him.
On her deathbed, Amanda had charged Theo Payne with
re-establishing a Kent family newspaper
opposed to slavery but firm in its support of any
reasonable compromise necessary to maintain national
union. Even with Amanda gone eight years,
Payne had scrupulously adhered to that policy.
But Michael knew the editor must be anticipating
the future with immense delight
Payne swigged from the bottle, then raised it
to salute Michael: "I give you, sir, the
Rail Candidate. The vulgar mobocrat. The
illiterate partisan of Negro equality-was
"That can't be Theo Payne you're quoting."
"Hell no. One of those fire-eaters on Mr.
Rhett's Charleston Mercury. Tonight they're
getting what they deserve."
"You're too eager, Theo. Maybe Lincoln can
hold things together. He doesn't despise
Southerners the way you do. He's made that
eminently clear in his speeches."
"Ah, but they don't listen to his speeches! They
hear only what they want to hear. That slavery will
end. Never mind Lincoln thinks it'll die of
natural causes- the factory system, the
influence of education, religion comnever mind that.
To our Southern brethren, he's a threat. An
excuse!"
Somber, Michael said, "Which is the same thing your
abolitionist crowd wants. An excuse for a holy
crusade. Without scruples and without mercy-and the
devil with the country."
Payne grew truculent. "Those may be my
personal
30Prologue
opinions. You know damn well I don't expound
them in
the paper!"
"Of course you don't. If you did, Louis and I
would
toss you into the street. Then how would you feed Mrs.
Payne and that big brood of yours?"
Payne replied to Michael's good-natured needling
with a belch. "Gordon Bennett would hire me in a
snap.
However, I refuse to listen to you when you start
blustering like a longshoreman."
"I was a longshoreman before Mrs. A took me
on."
"Well, you're also sounding like Louis."
There was a touch of dismay in Michael's laugh.
"God forbid!" "Mr. Payne?" The cry from the
rear brought Michael pivoting around. Payne shouted
back, "What is it?" "We're receiving a dispatch
from Lucas." Payne jumped up. "Charleston!
The first reaction-
come on, Michael. Let's see how the bastards like
their
new president!"
Michael followed the editor to the small
telegraph room at the back of the main office.
In a haze of cigar smoke, three young men sat
before separate sending and receiving stations. As the sounder in
the center clacked, the operator hastily
transcribed the dispatch. Payne peered over his
shoulder, then began to chuckle:
"Precisely what I expected! Bells.
Bonfires. An informal business holiday declared
for tomorrow-was He read more. "Lucas heard a band on the
Battery playing the "Marseillaise."
Saw half a dozen hotbloods sporting blue
cockades-was
"I don't get the significance."
The Titans31
"The blue cockade, Michael, has been the
symbol of resistance ever since Andy Jackson
backed South Carolina down on Nullification."
Payne turned back to scan the copy.
"Going to be fireworks tomorrow night. Illuminations in
private homes-was A pause. "And a call for a
state convention in a month or so. A convention
to consider comwhat does he say?"
The editor leaned on the operator's shoulder, almost
pushing the young man out of the chair.
The operator read: "To consider the state's relation
to the Federal Government."
"Wonderful. Wonderful" Payne looked almost
ecstatic. "Secession is finally going to turn
into something besides swamp oratory. Michael, my
boy, I'll wager fifty dollars that one or more
of the states down there will try to pull out."
"If they do, we'll all be in trouble. Lincoln
won't let a state just-resign from the nation. He
made that clear when he spoke at Cooper Union
in February. He said he wouldn't accept
the Southern claim that electing a Republican would
destroy the Union."
"That's right," Payne agreed as the sounder went
silent. "No one can destroy the Union but the
Southerners!" He snatched the completed dispatch.
"I've decided on the subject of my
editorial. A warning to those fine gentlemen not to act
precipitously."
"You're a hypocrite, Theo. You hope they will."
The editor feigned innocence. "I follow company
policy!" But Michael saw the beginning of a smile
as Payne turned back toward his office. "From this
point on, I believe events will take care of
themselves."
And that, Michael thought, is what we all have
to worry about
32Prologue
The secessionist leaders had already decided the South
couldn't prosper, let alone protect its
traditional way of life, under a Republican
administration. No amount of conciliatory
rhetoric from the President-to- be was going
to change that attitude nor resolve the
fundamental question underlying the trouble: the status of the
black man. That was the storm center.
Michael had seen it tonight in the Irish robber's
remark about Joel.
Facts and reason no longer counted in the debate.
It didn't matter, for instance, that the majority of the
Southern yeoman ry-fanners who worked their own land
with their own hands-couldn't afford black laborers and
undoubtedly wouldn't approve of owning them if they
could.
It didn't matter that the South contained a minority
of respected leaders who staunchly opposed
secession.
It didn't matter that there were whole areas in which the
idea of slavery was abominated-the mountainous western
counties of Virginia, for example.
Nothing mattered.
The radical spokesmen for the so-called plantation
aristocracy relied on emotionalism-and a few
unimpeachable truths. They kept reminding
Southerners that for thirty years and more, the entire
region had had its honor called into question; every
aspect of its style of life degraded and sneered
at by Northern radicals; had been, in short, the
target of relentless ideological campaigns that
made every Southerner, slaveowner or not, a party
to what the vituperative Senator Sumner
had scorned on the floor of Congress as a system
of "harlotry."
The Massachusetts legislator had couched that
attack in the most personal terms. He'd aimed
it directly
The Titans33
against the distinguished Andrew Butler of South
Carolina. Senator Butler, Sumner charged,
"has chosen a mistress who, though ugly to others,
is always lovely to him--I meant the harlot,
Slavery."
The assault on Butler's character had-been delivered
on a day when the Senator was absent from the chamber,
heightening the insult.
In retaliation, Butler's nephew, young
Congressman Preston Brooks, had stalked into the
Senate and smashed at Stunner's head and back with a
gutta-percha cane, leaving Sumner near death at
his desk. The poison kept spreading-
The Union's Washington reporter-who had yet
to be heard from, Michael realized-had wired a
week ago that the Democratic incumbent was growing
sicker in spirit by the day.
Buck Buchanan was a decent man. But he was
frightened and hopelessly confused by the possible
ramifications of what Seward had once rashly
referred to as the irrepressible conflict. Buchanan
had come to realize there might be no way
to reconcile sectional differences short of
separation.
And war?
Some of Michael's acquaintances were already talking as
if a sectional war-perhaps of short duration, but war
nonetheless-was a strong possibility. Among these
acquaintances was Colonel Corcoran, commander of the
69th New York Militia, one of several city
regiments composed almost entirely of Irishmen.
The 69th was just about ten years old. Prided itself on
being a crack unit. The regiment held regular
meetings at Hibernian Hall, which Corcoran
owned. From time to time Michael dropped in at the
hall on meeting nights to visit with men he'd known
during his days as a worker and labor organizer on the
docks. Of late, Corcoran had been urging him
to join up.
Appeals were made to Michael's Irish pride and
34Prologue
patriotism. The 69th was honing its military
skills because many of its members belonged to the Fenian
Brotherhood, the semi-secret, world-wide
organization dedicated to one day liberating Ireland
from Great Britain. Gaining experience in a
militia regiment, even at the price of going
to war, would be invaluable.
Michael spiritedly defended his own position. Yes,
he was proud of his Irish heritage. But he was an
American now. He had no desire to fight for the
country from which his parents had emigrated in poverty and
despair. Nor did he want to go to war against other
Americans.
Corcoran acknowledged his friend's right to his
viewpoint. But he didn't agree with it.
Corcoran was also the local leader of the Fenians.
Still, he promised that if Michael ever changed his
mind, the New York 69th had a place for him.
Theo Payne was in his office composing the morning's
editorial. Michael lingered in the telegraph
room as returns continued to come in.
New York was going solidly Republican.
New Jersey and Massachusetts were tending the
same way. A copy boy ran back and forth between the
operators and the tally board, where the clerk continually
chalked new figures.
The totals were coming in faster now. Two of the
telegraphers bet on whether Lincoln would
carry sixteen or eighteen free states.
Breckenridge appeared to be taking the lead throughout
the South. Bell's Constitutional ticket showed
initial strength only in Virginia and two of the
border states, Kentucky and Tennessee, where pro
and antislavery sentiment existed in almost equal
amounts. The embattled Douglas would be lucky
to pull even one state in the winning column.
The Titans35
"Washington!" one of the operators exclaimed.
Michael stepped forward, awaiting the message from
Jephtha Kent.
Jephtha, the son of Amanda's cousin Jared, had
been a minister of the Methodist Episcopal
Church, South, until his views on slavery had
gotten him removed from his itinerancy in Virginia.
Next had come separation from his wife and children, then an
ignominious period of self-inflicted martyrdom
in the little town where the family made its home.
Finally there had been the involvement with the Underground
Railroad that had nearly cost Jephtha his life.
Broken and disillusioned, he'd fled to New York
shortly after Amanda's death in 1852. With
Michael's help, he had reconstructed his life
along completely different lines. He'd
been the Union's reporter in the nation's capital
for the past three and a half years. He was content
to let Michael and Louis administer the enormous
sums of money that came from the California gold
mining properties originally belonging to his father, who
had been murdered in San Francisco.
The money would always remain Jephtha's. But with his
approval-given while he was still a minister- Amanda
Kent had taken over the management of the Ophir
Company on his behalf.
The operator transcribed Jephtha's dispatch in
less than half a minute. Both he and Michael
stared at the sounder, as if expecting more. The
message penciled on the foolscap looked stark
because it was so short:
SECESSION OF ONE OR MORE SOUTHERN
STATES SEEN HERE AS CERTAIN CONSEQUENCE
OF LINCOLN ELECTION. PRAY IT WILL
NOT LEAD TO WAR.
Staring at the paper, Michael realized how deeply
the night's events must be affecting Jephtha.
36Prologue
He hated slavery. At the same time he regarded
most Southerners not as evil people, but as misguided
ones- a subtle yet Important
difference that lingered from his years as a preacher of the
Christian gospel.
Every few months Jephtha returned to New York
for policy discussions with Theo Payne. From those
conversations Michael knew Jephtha desperately
feared a final confrontation between the two sections. His
three sons still lived in the South. Perhaps that
explained why, although he no longer professed much
religious faith, he had resorted to the word pray.
The operator said, "Guess that's all. But I
think Mr. Kent's wrong."
Michael picked up the foolscap. "For what
reason?"
"The South will never go to war just because Lincoln's
President."
"Oh? Then why have the Charleston papers been
writing about a "revolution of 1860?"'"
In the cubicle he found Payne taking a nip.
He handed him the sheet-"From Jephtha."-and tried
to ignore his smile after he read it.
"Vsee, Michael? Jephtha knows what's coming."
"And just what is my cousin's prediction,
gentlemen? Biblical apocalypse?"
The strong, faintly sarcastic male voice startled
Michael and Payne. The editor's right
hand, seeming to move with a life of its own, snatched
the whiskey bottle from the desk top, jammed it in
the drawer and slid the drawer shut with amazing speed.
The man who'd spoken was Louis Kent
Louis took the arm of the young woman at his side and
guided her into the tiny office. Michael gave him
the Washington copy.
The Titans37
"Read it for yourself." He inclined his head to Louis'
wife of two and a half years. "Good evening,
Julia."
"Good evening, Mi-heaven above! You're cut. And
covered with dust!"
"Nothing serious."
Amanda's son, whom Michael had served as legal
guardian until he reached his majority, let the
dispatch droop in his hand. "You didn't get that
pounding from the Stovall board, I hope."
"Not this particular pounding."
"Then where?"
"It's not important, Louis."
The younger man's eyes showed fleeting annoyance. People
didn't refuse to answer questions put to them by Louis
Kent.
But he stayed calm: "How did the meeting
go?"
"Miserably."
Louis scowled.
He was slender and strongly built. And although he was
only twenty-three, he already possessed a
confidence and maturity that turned feminine heads.
He looked superb in whatever he wore-tonight a
conservative black frock coat, open to show a
single- breasted waistcoat in a pattern of black
and white checks that matched his trousers. His black
satin cravat, tied in a bow, all but hid the round
starched collar of his shirt.
It was quite a proper costume for a young man of wealth.
Yet its subdued blacks and grays represented
a kind of negative but unmistakable ostentation.
The tones of the clothing complemented Louis' dark eyes
and swarthy skin-a heritage from the Mexican officer
who had fathered him during the trouble in Texas in
'36. His hair was jet black, worn thick at
the back. The hair curled down behind his ears
to neatly combed side whiskers reaching to a point just below
his
38Prologue
earlobes. He hadn't yet adopted the
Dundreary look- or the latest male
adornment, a flowing mustache.
Louis laid his gray kid gloves alongside his
stick on the editor's desk.
"Summarize the meeting for me, Michael."
The order irritated him. But perhaps he was just feeling
tense because of the way the election was going. And the cut was
throbbing again.
"I began by telling the board we'd sent agents
to Great Britain to investigate a radical new
process for converting pig iron into wrought iron or
steel. I told them the inventor, Mr.
Bessemer, was making claims worth our attention.
Saying the converting furnace he designed would one
day produce five tons of steel in a quarter of
an hour instead of the ten days it takes now. I went
over the agents' report line by line. I covered every
detail. Well, almost. Then I gave the board
our recommendation, including the budget for funding
an experimental installation in the Pittsburgh
plant. I pleaded the case for more than three
hours."
Louis blinked. "I should think they'd have accepted the
proposal out of sheer relief. Besides, the level of
risk is acceptably low."
"They almost agreed. Until Foley asked
what Mr. Bessemer's fellow Englishmen thought
about him."
"And?"
Michael shrugged. "I was forced to go back and comment
on what I'd omitted from the report. That the other
steelmakers say Bessemer and his process are
crazy."
"You told the truth?"
Michael was nonplussed. "Of course."
"And that's what defeated us?"
"The proposal was turned down unanimously."
"Why didn't you lie, for God's sake? That
vote completely disrupts my plans to make the
Stovall operation more competitive."
The Titans39
"If you'd been there, would you have lied?"
"You're damn right. And it's damned evident I
should have been there!"
His fingers were white as he forced himself to look at the
dispatch from Jephtha. Disgusted, Michael walked out
of the office. Louis' wife followed.
"Michael, won't you let me find some alcohol
for that cut?"
"No, thank you." He was still fuming over Louis'
anger and contempt. More and more of late,
friction was developing between them. It was one more
aspect of the future to worry about.
"I'm frightfully sorry you got hurt-was Julia
began.
"Just a scrape with a couple of street thugs."
He perched on the edge of an empty desk. She
walked around in front of him.
"You could have avoided it if you'd joined us. I was
looking forward to your company."
Julia's remark was coupled with the sort of glance
other men might have interpreted as very close to sexual
invitation. Michael didn't because he'd seen such
glances before. He knew they were automatic and
impersonal.
Louis Kent's wife was almost as diminutive as
Theo Payne. She had glossy dark brown hair
and blue eyes whose vividness was exaggerated by her
porcelain-pale skin. Her expensive
bell-sleeved gown matched the color of her eyes
perfectly.
The gown fitted closely over her breasts and was
open to the waist, revealing a blouse of immaculate
white muslin with a frilled collar. Her voluminous
skirt over crinolines was trimmed with dark blue
satin edged with pleated taffeta. Her hat was
a shallow-crowned straw; the wide brim drooped
exactly as far as fashion dictated. A dark
blue satin rosette decorated the hat's
front. Two matching satin streamers down the back
had been carefully draped over her left shoulder.
In weather
40Prologue
more typical of November, an outer cloak would have
completed the outfit.
Julia stepped closer to him. "I can't see how you
of all people could resist Delmonico's."
It was a light jibe at his infamous appetite.
He consumed huge quantities of food and never
gained a pound. He didn't mind the teasing. But he
did mind her physical nearness. He rose and
stepped away:
"I suppose it shows my slum upbringing, but I
prefer the Bull's Head. The waiters shout in
English instead of whispering bogus French."
"But you've never met the Commodore!"
"I've seen him driving his buggy along
Broadway like a madman. That's enough for me."
"Do you happen to know how old he is?"
"Sixty-seven, sixty-eight-was
"He's certainly spry. And he's a
dear. A perfect original!"
Michael wanted to laugh. If Cornelius
Vanderbilt had been poor, no doubt she'd have said
he was one of the most shabbily dressed, foul-mouthed
men in New York. Louis, at least, was more
honest-and calm again as he walked out of the office
carrying a sheaf of copy for the morning edition:
"That he is. I don't know many who can swear like a
dock hand and chew Lorillard plug at the same
time."
Proudly, Julia said, "He invited us
to Washington Place for cards after dinner."
"We invited him down here instead," Louis added.
"He went home."
"Doesn't he care who wins the election?"
Michael asked.
"He cares more about playing whist."
Julia pouted. "I did so want to see his
house."
"Ordinary," Louis told her.
But the circumstances of its occupancy had been far
from ordinary. The wife of the strong-willed
The Titansbleda
Commodore had originally refused to move from Staten
Island to Manhattan. Vanderbilt had
committed her to an insane asylum until she
"came to her senses."
"By the way, Michael," Louis said. "He does
have some interesting plans concerning railroad shares.
If we're lucky, he might let us in on a
small basis."
"Papa's already in," Julia declared.
Michael nodded. He knew of Vanderbilt's
ambition to acquire two short-line roads, the
New York and Harlem and the New York and
Hudson. The Kent family's bankers had told
him on a confidential basis that the Commodore
probably wanted to corner freight business in the
state by linking the short lines with a larger prize--the
New York Central connecting Albany with
Buffalo.
Julia kept watching Michael as he said,
"Well, I'm sorry to have missed such a grand
occasion. But the afternoon was a disaster. I needed lager
beer more than either you or the Commodore needed my
presence."
Julia understood the remark was meant for her.
Anger, then amusement flickered in her eyes. Through
polite but unmistakable rebuffs, Michael had
long ago made it clear he didn't want
to play her little game. Strangely, with him she
persisted.
As she did now, moving in his direction again, and
contriving to turn so that her breast brushed his arm
briefly. She laid a gloved hand on his
sleeve:
"I'm sure you did your best at the board meeting.
I'm sure you were very persuasive."
"I was out of my class against that pack of
mossbacks."
Julia stood on tiptoe to whisper: "You're a
bit of a mossback yourself. Some day, dear
Michael, I'll break through that shell-was
Louis lifted his head. His wife's whisper hadn't
been all that soft-perhaps on purpose. He frowned
when he saw how close to the Irishman Julia was
standing. She
42Prologue
ignored the frown and Louis forced his glance back
to his sheaf of copy.
"Break through?" Michael said to her. "I doubt it."
He was smiling. But his words had an edge. Her
eyes. opened wide with anger. He stared at her
until she looked away, her cheeks scarlet.
Julia Sedgwick Kent, twenty-one, was
an odd one indeed, Michael thought. In normal
social intercourse she only dealt cordially with
those whose wealth and influence matched or outstripped the
combined wealth and influence she and Louis had achieved
by their marriage.
Her acknowledged beauty probably made such
behavior acceptable. Yet her beauty was the one
characteristic about which Julia was astonishingly-even
cruelly-democratic. She wanted men to admire
her. All men. From the roughest press worker at the
paper to the gentlemen of important families.
Some men were out of reach. William B. Astor, for
instance. Wall Street said his fortune was close
to twenty-five million now; the total Kent
assets were worth only about half that, placing
Louis and Julia several rungs down on the
millionaires ladder. And no matter how rich her
husband was, Julia would never be socially
acceptable to certain of the Whitneys, the Rhinelanders,
the Schermerhorns. To those old families, Louis
Kent-even Vanderbilt-would always be upstarts.
Anyway, Michael doubted Julia would ever let
any man except Louis touch her. It was the
ability to attract men-the challenge to win a
response-that excited her. Any idiot
rash enough to make an overture would probably be
stunned by Julia's anger-and by a scathing rebuff that
he had misjudged her friendliness in a vulgar and
wholly unforgivable way.
That was only speculation, of course. There'd never
been the tiniest scrap of gossip to suggest Julia
carried the game to conclusion. But he didn't care
to find out
The Titansbledc
for himself. It was too risky for a number of reasons,
including potential damage to his own
self-respect, and the continuing necessity of working with
Louis, who hewed to the socially acceptable double
standard of male society: What's right for me is not
right for my spouse.
Every few months Louis slept with some young shopgirl
who happened to catch his fancy. He didn't
attempt to conceal these escapades from Michael. But
let any man attempt to seduce Julia and
Louis would undoubtedly become the very picture of the
outraged, vengeful husband.
Michael didn't like to admit he found Julia
hellishly good looking, or that he responded
unwillingly to the sexual aura surrounding her like the
scent of her cologne. Sometimes he
wondered if she sensed he was attracted. That might
explain why she pursued him with more determination than
she did some who signaled that they wanted no part of
her flirtations.
Right now she was furious with him for his latest
rebuff. He could tell by the stiffness of her posture
as she walked a few steps up the aisle and
pretended to examine a button on her glove
while Louis kept reading.
Quite apart from Julia's beauty, he supposed she
had good reason for her haughty attitude. Her
father, in his seventies, was indeed a close friend of
Cornelius Vanderbilt. Julia and "Papa" had
been among the privileged few who had cruised
New York harbor after the launching of
Vanderbilt's opulent 270-foot steam yacht
North Star. Julia had only been fourteen, but
she vividly recalled the champagne and the lavish
fireworks display.
Sedgwick had gotten rich on the bases of this
friendship. He'd been permitted to invest in the
Commodore's immensely profitable Accessory
Transit Company. At the height of the gold
rush, the company had shortened the sea route
to California by two days via a connection
44Prologue
across Nicaragua rather than Panama. Next
Sedgwick had pumped money into Vanderbilt's
lucrative New York to Le Havre freight
and passenger line. He was currently using his
connection to share in the Commodore's new
passion-railroads-and to help his son-in- law do
the same if he wished.
Sedgwick was by no means old New York
society. But he was sufficiently wealthy and well
placed so that Louis' successful courtship had been
something of an accomplishment.
Julia and Louis had married a year and a half after
the conclusion of his last term at Harvard. He'd
gone there at Michael's insistence but had dawdled
through his classes.
Louis had never received his degree. By the time he
quit the university to devote himself to running the
affairs of the family, he had only finished a year
and a half of actual study. He'd developed a
pattern of growing disinterested by the end of one term, at
which time he would come back to New York and spend
half a year with Michael learning the business.
Twice Michael had been able to persuade him
to return for a fall term-and twice, when
winter arrived in the city, so did Louis, saying he
was bored with Cambridge and eager to get on with his
practical education. At the end of the third term,
Michael abandoned any hope of Louis'
graduating.
Not that Louis wasn't bright. He'd quickly
absorbed the training Michael had given him, as
well as that from the Kents legal and banking
advisers. Michael watched Louis grow into a
shrewd and capable administrator who weighed every
decision in terms of profit or loss.
A year after the wedding, Louis succumbed
to Julia's constant complaints about the smelly
Italians, the quarrelsome Irish, and the stubborn
Germans with whom the better classes were increasingly
forced to contend in the crowded city. He presented his
wife with a second
The Titansblede
home-a country retreat-even more lavish than the
Madison Square mansion, which had become the
family seat after Amanda Kent de la Gura had
returned east from the gold fields.
The new house, a great monster of a place near
Tarrytown, had been designed in the popular
Gothic Revival style. In Michael's
opinion, the house well illustrated the paradox of
Louis Kent. He was jealous of even a single
penny lost from the profits of the diversified Kent
enterprises-and none too scrupulous, sometimes, about
how he increased those profits. Yet he liked
personal ostentation. Contrary to all advice, he'd
indulged his liking on an unprecedented scale
by building the country place on wooded property
overlooking the Hudson River.
Louis was never at ease when imagination was required
compyramiding wealth excepted-and so he'd been at a
loss for a name for the house. It was Michael who'd
proposed a name tracing back to the man who had
sired Louis' great-grandfather Philip, the first of the
Kents.
Philip Kent's father, a British nobleman, had
owned a country estate called Kentland. Although
Louis acted put out because he hadn't thought of it-and
because Michael seemed to know more of his family's
history than he did-the name was finally adopted, and the
American Kentland was surrendered to its new
mistress. Louis and Julia divided their time between
Madison Square, where Michael lived, and the
country house, to which all of the family heirlooms
had been removed.
Louis' easy compliance about the house was just one
reason Michael considered the alliance with Julia
unfortunate. Another was the way her temperament
reinforced her husband's. She approved of, and
encouraged, patterns of behavior that were a distortion
of what Michael considered moral-patterns Louis
had already developed in his private life and in
business.
Louis' approach to business and life had been
46Prologue
summed up for Michael in a conversation he'd had with
Amanda's son several years after she died.
Just prior to her death, Louis had sexually
assaulted one of the household girls. Amanda had
discovered it. For punishment, she'd beaten her son
with a buggy whip and charged him never again to take
advantage of anyone of inferior strength or
resources.
Over whiskey one evening, Michael asked Louis
outright whether the whipping had left a lasting
impression. To this day, he recalled the boy's
handsome, swarthy face lighting with an almost rapturous
smile.
"An impression, Michael? Definitely. It
taught me one invaluable lesson. Whatever
you do, no matter how bad, the important thing is
not to get caught."
"But Mrs. A said you were contrite-was
"Of course I was contrite! I was damn mad that
I'd let myself have a second go at that little slut
of a housemaid. If I hadn't, I'd never have
been found out. But I was. Only an imbecile
would have denied being sorry. I pretended,
Michael-pretended-principally so my mother wouldn't
whip me half to death."
The lightly'spoken words had tainted their relationship
ever since.
As was his right, Amanda's son gradually assumed
control of the various family enterprises: the
publishing house in Boston; the Union; the
Kents' partial ownership of the cotton-spinning mill
in Rhode Island; the gold mines; and the steel works
in which Amanda had acquired a substantial interest
during her lifetime. Michael had occupied the Kent
seat on the board of The Stovall Works solely as
a surrogate; Louis made every decision.
While Michael saw Amanda Kent in her son, it
was a subtly warped reflection. Louis possessed
much of his mother's strength, but without the innate decency
and compassion that had helped temper her
occasionally ruthless use of that strength.
The Titansbledg
Michael believed the lack in Louis to be partly his
fault. Whenever he felt the failure most
keenly, he consoled himself with the thought that once Louis
had reached fifteen-the age at which Michael had
assumed guardianship-a fundamental change in the
boy's character had probably been impossible
to achieve.
If that wasn't true, at least it eased his
conscience.
At first, as Louis was learning about the different
businesses, he and Michael had been fairly
close. When they argued, it was on the merits of a
question, with little or no personal rancor. But the more
Louis learned, the more he changed. Julia's
presence had only accelerated the change-
And opened another gulf.
Michael felt he was part of the family. Louis and
Julia saw it otherwise. Louis was the only
true Kent.
He finished reading the last piece of copy as
Payne emerged from his cubicle. "That has the
makings of a good editorial, Theo," Louis said.
Michael detected insincerity. Except for
insisting upon no unfavorable stories about
industrialists or the factory system, Louis
wasn't interested in the paper's position on
issues, only its earnings. It was Michael who
enforced the policy Amanda had outlined when she lay
dying.
Louis added, "I do hope you're wrong about war- you
and our family prophet."
"You mean Jephtha?" Payne asked.
"Yes."
Michael's brow hooked up because Louis actually
sounded concerned.
"I don't know how many millions the South owes
Northern bankers like Joshua Rothman. But I can
imagine the panic if all those loans were suddenly
to go into default. It would be worse than '57-and that
wasn't exactly a banner year."
48Prologue
"That's all that worries you?" Michael asked.
"The possible effects of secession on business?"
Half turned toward the tally board where the clerk was
chalking new figures, Louis spun back.
"Why else should I be worried? I certainly
don't give a damn about a lot of unwashed
niggers. It doesn't matter to me whether
they're free men or property, so long as they
keep supplying the Blackstone mill with cotton.
That supply could be drastically cut-or disappear
altogether comif we have real trouble with the South."
"But the Stovall Works should prosper if the North
needs munitions," Payne put in.
Louis nodded. "Yes, that's a plus."
Michael said, "Apart from the Bessemer proposal,
steel for armaments was almost the sole subject of
discussion by the board members. They were all licking
their chops. Not a one of them seems to care a damn
about the possible disruption of the country."
"I do," Louis said.
Sarcastically, Michael asked, "For
humanitarian reasons? Or commercial ones?"
Louis' glance was hostile; his tone curt:
"The latter. The Republicans promise
to encourage industrialization. That means they favor
the high protective tariff, which benefits-was
"Us," Michael cut in. "The North. And the
farmers in the West. It's also one more bone sticking in
the backslash iSouth's throat."
"Well, you can't blame the Kent family-or
New
England and New York and Ohio-because
shortsighted fools down in Georgia and
Mississippi have built their economy on
cotton. Did they expect its price to stay high
with so many planters growing one crop? Fewer
dollars-no factories to speak of-hell, they have
to import most of their goods, and it's getting harder and
harder for them to come up with the cash. Too bad. I'm
interested in our welfare. I'd hate to see the
The Titansbledi
Republicans forced to abandon their promises about
tariffs. It could happen-quickly-if that long-armed
lawyer drags us all into a war with his moralizing and
his endless dirty jokes." Louis had heard
Lincoln speak at Cooper Union. He hadn't
been impressed.
"His jokes aren't dirty," Payne said. "Just
refreshingly crude."
Julia pouted. "Louis, you know discussions like this are
over my head, and wearisome besides. I'm growing
dreadfully tired-was
"I want to check the returns and then we'll go
along," he assured her.
Michael was seething. With a slashing gesture he
indicated the board:
"There they are. Bad for business!"
Louis eyed Michael, but controlled himself. "What
about reaction from the South, Theo?"
"Did I neglect to hand you the dispatch from
Lucas?" He smiled. "In Charleston they're
celebrating. Tomorrow will be an informal commercial
holiday."
"A holidayThat Louis understood. "Damn. It is
coming-was He suppressed his anger. "But I
suppose we're smart enough to weather it. Alert men
should be able to find ways to profit from the wants and
misfortunes of both sides. It's conceivable we
could turn our need for cotton into trading leverage.
Even at war, the South would have to purchase goods
somewhere. Michael, we should write a confidential
letter to the Lacroix brothers in New Orleans-being
cotton factors, they'll have a grasp of what
may happen to the supply if some of those hotheads
pull their states out of the Union."
Michael exploded: "It's a somewhat broader question
than supply and demand! It's a question of whether this
country can be torn apart at will. Think of what
secession could do to this family. Think of Jephtha!
He has three sons in Virginia-was
50Prologue
Louis shjrugged. "His concern, I'm
afraid. Certainly not mine."
"I expect your mother would have considered Jephtha's
boys her concern. I think they'd be somewhat more
important to her than our balance sheets!"
Michael's cheeks felt hot Julia inhaled,
quickly and loudly. He didn't look at her.
Payne fidgeted as Louis abandoned even the
pretense of cordiality.
"My mother is dead, Michael. I run Kent's
according to my lights. And if you don't care for my
style of doing business, you're free to disassociate
yourself at any time."
Like a disgruntled employee? Michael thought,
furious at the way Louis had put him in his
place by stating the truth of their relationship: he was the
outsider.
No. That wasn't entirely true. Amanda had
given him heavy responsibilities because she'd
recognized the potential weakness in Louis. And,
at the last, they'd loved one another almost as mother and
son. Spiritually if not legally, he was a Kent
But he didn't want a scene in front of Theo
Payne and the reporters beginning to fill the
editorial room. He held his tongue, though doing
so only deepened his anger and gloom. One
day-maybe quite soon-his differences with Louis could
no longer be contained. Then he'd face a crisis.
Whether to keep silent, or fight-
And lose?
He became uncomfortably aware of Julia's
cold gaze. She picked up her skirts and
hurried to the front windows. For some minutes
Michael had been hearing a crowd gathering in
Printing House Square. The crowd's murmur was
rapidly growing louder. All at once a new
sound was added-
Drums.
"Massachusetts looks certain for Lincoln!" the
clerk shouted from the board. "Ohio's going the same
way."
The Titans51
Louis acknowledged the news with a disgusted nod. He
strolled up to join Julia, pushing two reporters
out of the way. She pointed:
"It's those dreadful Wide-Awakes. The mobs
follow them wherever they go!"
Michael moved up behind them. The reporters let
him through-something they hadn't done for Louis.
Louis didn't turn to acknowledge Michael's
presence. Julia knew he was there. She
adjusted her bonnet. This time she was careful not
to touch him.
The rhythm of the snare drums drifted up through the
November dark. Michael craned to see out the
window. To the north of Printing House Square, an
orange light began to flicker. People poured into the
square ahead of the elongated shadows torchlight
flung on the pavement-
The shadows of marching men.
Four abreast and boots thudding, the first company of
Wide-Awakes appeared. The torches put
shimmering highlights on black oilcloth capes.
Here and there a silver eagle on a glazed black
fatigue cap winked like a mirror reflecting the
sun.
Companies of the political marching organization had
been formed all through the North in the months since
Lincoln's tacticians had snatched the nomination
from New York's Senator Seward out at the
Wigwam in Chicago. The Wide-Awakes 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 out of a real fix on the inauguration platform when
I ct oldn't find a place for my old
stovepipe."
Writing, Jephtha smiled. "I remember how he
took the hat and held it while you spoke-was
The smile faded. And I remember your closing
words. Eloquent words about the better angels of
man's nature. I don't believe they exist
any longer. Not in this country-
"Can you say anything about the state of the army? Before your
call for troops, it was only fifteen thousand
men-was
"Sixteen. Most of 'em scattered hither and yon
on the Western borders."
"Will they be able to put down the insurrection with the help
of the militia?"
Lincoln reflected. "Mr. Kent, I won't
answer that I've already expressed my thinking in the
proclamation.
708An Oath Registered in Heaven"
To say anything further might sound overly
belligerent. Make matters worse. The truth
is, I'm saddened the South has forced war on this
government-was
"Some say you maneuvered the events at Sumter.
Specifically, by sending Mr. Chew of the War
Department to Charleston earlier this month to inform
Governor Pickens you intended to reprovision the fort
by
sea."
Lincoln looked somber, his silence acknowledging a
degree of truth in Jephtha's rather bold
observation. But the President let him continue:
"In effect, Mr. Chew's mission signaled a
repetition of the Star of the West incident before you took
office. In Charleston they regarded it as a warning
that you wouldn't surrender Federal property. That you'd
fight instead-and hoped to provoke them into firing the first
shots. Which, as it turned out, they did." "I'm
aware of what people are saying," Lincoln sighed.
"They can't see the difference between my duty and my
personal feelings. I had to take a stand on the
matter of the forts-but the last thing I wanted to do was
provoke war. The very idea of Americans
quarreling is grievous to me, Mr. Kent. I've
said repeatedly I bear no ill will toward the
Southern states. I've tried to make it plain my
policy was not to interfere in the South's domestic
institution where it already exists, only
to promote its containment. But that didn't satisfy
then- more extreme spokesmen. So I tried to sue
for accord when I gave my inaugural-though my
conscience did compel me to be absolutely candid
on one point. I said it in March, and I'll say
it now-I do believe I have a solemn oath
registered in heaven to prevent an unconstitutional
act. I mean the destruction of the Union. But
believe me, Mr. Kent, I want to end this
struggle quickly, not prolong or inflame it."
Trying to write the essence of the President's
thoughts, Jephtha nodded again, then said:
The Titans71
"All right, sir. Could we turn for a moment to the
high command of the army?"
Lincoln's hairy brows puckered together. "What
are you getting at? Scott is general-in-chief-was
"But he's almost seventy-five. In poor health-was
Lincoln grinned. "Fat as a prairie hen,
too. His gout wouldn't plague him so severely if
he'd stay away from all that rich food and wine."
A finger stabbed out "Don't write that down."
"I realize General Scott's the senior officer
in the service. But there have been persistent rumors that
the actual command of the Federal army will be
offered to Colonel Lee."
Lincoln's quick backward movement-a sort of
jerking in his chair-showed Jephtha he'd hit a
target. The President's fids drooped a moment
The gaunt, yellowish face grew unreadable:
"I consider Bob Lee the best officer in the
United States army, Mr. Kent. That's no
secret"
"No, sir. It was evident in March after he came
back from Texas and General Scott promoted him
to full colonel and command of the First Cavalry."
Hoping to insure Lee's continued loyalty?
Jephtha didn't voice the cynical
suspicion. He let Lincoln resume at his
own pace:
"Bob Lee's served the Union in exemplary
fashion. You know he commanded the Marines who
captured that lunatic Brown at Harper's
Ferry. But Bob Lee is also a Virginian.
I reckon I shouldn't say a word about his possible
reaction to any overtures. Not that there are any
overtures-or will be," Lincoln emphasized.
But Jephtha knew Colonel Lee was resting at
his mansion across the river in Arlington. If the
special convention sitting in Richmond right
this moment vojed for secession, Lee's reaction would
be of inestimable importance to those on both sides of the
quarrel
The President rose.
7'I don't wish to be short with you, Mr. Kent.
But we've passed the allotted time by several
minutes."
Jephtha stood. "Just one or two more questions before I
go-was
"Guess I'm trapped," Lincoln said,
chuckling. "You do have a reputation as one of the most
persistent reporters in the whole town."
"Is the city in any danger at present?"
"Military danger?"
Jephtha nodded.
Lincoln's eyes shifted away. For the first time
during the conversation, Jephtha sensed a deliberate
evasion coming.
"I think not. Virginia hasn't left the
Union-was
"But everyone assumes she will. Congressman
Pryor went to Charleston a while back and all but
pleaded with the governor to start the attack on
Sumter."
"Yes, I'm acquainted with the pleadings of
Mr. Pryor of Virginia. 'Strike a blow,"
he said. Then his state would surely step into line.
Still, even if Virginia does join the
insurrection, we'll manage to keep house.
Precautions are being taken-was
His tone said the subject was closed. But it wasn't
for Jephtha.
"There are very few Federal troops in Washington,
sir. Even with more, can it be defended?"
The President hesitated before answering. "I
believe General Scott thinks not. But he also
feels we won't be attacked. I can't say
whether he's right or wrong. But I do know-and I'm
sure you do too-the internal threat is just as great as
the threat from Virginia. Southern sympathizers are
pretty thick in this town. I know from all the
gossip I've heard about us folks from the
Northwest. The Southern crowd believes we're
sour. Puritanical. Can't even enjoy a good
party because of our religious principles-oh, I've
heard it all," he finished with a weary wave.
"i
28An Oath Registered in Heaven'
The Titans73
Potential danger for city-real?
Fancied? Jephtha wrote, cupping the sheet so the
President couldn't see. As he finished jotting the
final word, he said:
"Even though fighting's broken out, will you attempt
any further conciliation with the Confederacy?"
"I'm sorry, but you're tramping forbidden ground
again, Mr. Kent. I won't discuss policy before
it's decided. Besides, things are moving so fast,
policy has to run like the devil just to stay ten yards
behind! Any announcements along the lines you mentioned
will be official, not informal ones.
"However, speaking in total confidence, I want
peace. Soon, if that's possible. But there can be no
compromising with rebellion. The first
responsibility of this administration is to prove that
popular government hasn't become an
absurdity."
The intense, deep-set eyes seemed to catch fire
and burn a moment. Strangely, Jephtha was
conscious of the humanity of the man before him, not the
office he represented. Lincoln's clothes were
untidy. His speech was nasal, and to some ears,
grating. The Congress wouldn't even vote funds
to refurbish the building in which he lived and worked under
the awesome burdens of the moment. Directly
beneath the conference table, there was a large rip in the
threadbare carpet-
"We must settle the question now" Lincoln went on.
"In a free government, does the minority have the
right to sunder the whole whenever they choose? I say no.
This administration says no. But if we fail in
proving our case it will go far to demonstrate the
incapability of the people to govern themselves-was
A sharp knock broke the President's
concentration. Jephtha finished writing and slipped his
paper and pencil back into his pocket as Lincoln
accompanied him toward the rosewood door.
"It's the personal price of what we face that
disturbs me most," the President said. "My
Bob is old enough to
748An Oath Reystered in Heaven"
fight. And you have bovs of your own-in Virginia-
didn't you mention that when we dined together?"
"The bovs were in Virginia," Jephtha answered,
feeling the familiar anger. "I have no idea where
they are now. My wife has remarried. Her
husband travels-was
He didn't want to reveal that Fan was married to a
man who engaged in a profession respectable
oeople considered only a cut above
operating saloons or bawdyhouses. He was an
actor. It truly baffled Tephtha that his former
wife, always a prooer sort, had taken up with a
man such as Edward Lamont. Jephtha would have been
hurt, even angry, no matter whom she'd
married. But if Fan had chosen a merchant, or a
teacher, it wouldn't have been half so humiliating-
"Well," Lincoln said, "for the sake of your boys,
and mine, I hope we can bring the conflict to a
speedy end. I sometimes get depressed and conclude
Americans can only settle their great disputes with
bloodshed. The trouble is, it's never the
disputants-the politicians- who shed the blood.
They send their sons and your sons and my sons off
to do it for them." He shook his head. "Sad-was
As Lincoln reached for the door, it was opened by an
impatient Nicolay, watch in hand:
"Mr. President, forgive me, but it's
twenty-five past the hour!"
"Can't help it, John. Mr. Kent and I got
engaged in a good chat." Lincoln held out his hand.
Jephtha shook it. The President had a strong
grip.
Nicolay kept fidgeting. But the melancholy
eyes looking out from under the black brow
made Jephtha blurt one more question:
"Do you ever regret you've taken this office, sir?"
The President leaned against the door frame in a
relaxed way. He put one hand in his pocket. The
sentry, rifled musket raised, moved down the
hall to bar the
The Titans75
favor-seekers who had risen from their benches at the
sight of the Chief Executive.
"You know, Mr. Kent, once in a while I feel
exactly like a fellow I knew back in
Springfield. The man committed a public
indecency and was promptly covered with tar and chicken
feathers and escorted out of town riding on a rail.
Someone asked him how it felt."
The pushy throng in the hallway quieted.
"Well, the miscreant said-was
Lincoln's right thumb hooked under his coat and
caught his suspender. His eyes twinkled as he
lapsed into an exaggerated rural dialect:
"To be honest, fellers, if it wasn't for the honor
involved, I'd jist as soon walk."
Jephtha smiled, then thanked the President for
granting him more time than originally allotted.
Nicolay tapped a nail against the case
of his watch. Slowly, like a curtain falling, a
tired expression came across Lincoln's face.
He turned to re-enter the office, ignoring a man
down the hall who held up his hand and exclaimed,
"Mr. President, if I could just speak to you for a
moment-was
Lincoln scuffed his shoes on the carpet. His
shoulders slumped. Nicolay followed him inside.
The rosewood door closed. The man who'd
raised his hand swore.
Jephtha pushed through the fetid petitioners and headed
down the staircase. On the ground floor he saw
the German family clustered around draperies at
one of the windows. With a guilty look, the wife
returned a small pair of scissors to her
reticule-and then something else. Jephtha noticed
a square had been snipped from one of the drapes.
He shook his head as he walked to the doors.
Souvenir-stealing at the mansion was nothing new. But
he was deeply concerned about the lack of security in
the building. Lincoln was passionately hated by a
great many people. Those around the President should exercise
768An Oath Registered in Heaven"
more caution-insist on more guards-even if the
President refused to do so.
Jephtha knew Lincoln had a fatalistic view
about his own death. He'd been exposed to repeated
threats on his life and dismissed them, feeling his time
had not yet come. Jephtha recalled reading a
piece in MedilTs Chicago Daily Tribune
written out of Springfield the morning after the
election. Lincoln had spoken of a puzzling dream
the preceding night. A dream or, his detractors
would claim, hallucination; he was known to fall
into black, almost suicidal moods.
The story said that as Lincoln started to go to sleep,
he glanced in a mirror and saw himself lying full
length on a sofa covered with haircloth. His image
had one body, but two faces.
When he rose, the vision disappeared. When he lay
down a second time, twin faces again shimmered in the
glass. One face was chalk-white.
Lincoln's wife Mary, the small, ambitious
woman whom many said vexed her husband almost beyond
endurance, had circulated the story next day and
given it an eerie twist. She maintained the two
faces meant her husband would be elected to a
second term. The pallor of one face meant he
would never complete it.
Thinking of the story as he went down the
mansion's outer steps, Jepntha shivered. Enemies
of the President were always circulating tales about his
wife's mental instability. Whether Mrs.
Lincoln had a morbid imagination was beside the point.
Lincoln was vulnerable in the too-public
presidential residence. Washington was no longer
merely a rough-hewn, basically Southern city that
came to life for a few months every year when Congress
sat. It was the capital of a nation at war with itself.
In war, men killed other men-
And not always on the battlefield.
Jephtha headed toward the brick State Department
building. He intended to drop in on one of his
contacts
The Titans77
to learn whether Lincoln's muzzling of all
government officials was a reality. As he
approached the building, a party of men emerged,
headed for the White House.
In the center of the group, with those on either side leaning
close to catch his hoarse, whispery voice-a
voice ruined by too many cigars-Secretary of
State William Seward kept up a nonstop
conversation.
Seward was tall, stooped, and in his
sixties. Lincoln had scored a coup by persuading
his former opponent to join his cabinet. Some said
Seward had already attempted to increase his personal
power by offering to assume the burdens of presidential
decision-making. Jephtha had never seen the
provocative memorandum in which the offer had
reportedly been made. But he understood Lincoln
had thanked Seward and politely said no. Yet as
far as Jephtha could learn, Seward and the Chief
Executive still respected one another and were becoming
close personal friends.
Seward acknowledged Jephtha's presence with a reedy
rasp. The actual words were indistinguishable as he
rushed past with his entourage. Ten minutes later
Jephtha emerged from State, having satisfied himself
that his customary sources of rumor and half-truth were
indeed no longer talking.
His contact had been exceedingly nervous-r-and had
twice referred to the small number of militia
companies guarding Washington. Jephtha began
to think the specter of Southern invasion might be more
real than anyone wanted to admit.
He neared several Treasury clerks who had
paused to shoo a flock of clucking geese. As he
passed, he heard one of the clerks growl:
"comdamn fools to go after Sumter that way. If they
try to fight us we'll have them whipped by the time Old
Abe's ninety-day conscripts are due to go
home."
Jephtha left through the gate of President's
Park and once more started across the traffic-thronged
mire of
788An Oath Registered in Heaven"
Pennsylvania Avenue. He didn't believe the
clerk was right. He wasn't sure the President
held the same opinion either. As he'd told
Nicolay, the Southern people could never be accused of
cowardice.
That turned his thoughts back to his three sons.
Gideon, the eldest, would be eighteen in June.
Matthew was but a year younger. Jeremiah, thank
heaven, was not yet fifteen. But what if the older
boys decided to enlist in one of the militia units
that had been drilling throughout the South for months?
Damn! He wished-he knew where the boys were.
He wished he and Fan hadn't parted so bitterly.
But she was as loyal to her convictions as he was to his.
Fan and the boys were seldom out of Jephtha's mind
for more than a few hours. He always thought of his sons
with longing-and of his former wife with anger. Her
behavior over the past nine years occasionally drove
him into violent rages that upset his relationship with
Molly, the diswoman with whom he'd been living for
better than twelve months.
No use working himself into a fury now, he decided.
He had a problem to solve. What sort of dispatch
could he file to satisfy Theo Payne?
As he dodged carriages on the avenue, he peered
at his hastily written notes. He had nothing
solid to send to New York. Much of what
Lincoln had told him in private was already
widely known.
Jephtha's lack of copy would infuriate Payne
on two counts. The editor wanted only fresh
material. And preferably the kind in which Lincoln,
or someone in the administration, fulminated against
Southern "traitors." Long an abolitionist even
more ardent than Jephtha himself, Payne considered the
President not sufficiently hostile in his
attitude toward the new-Confederacy.
The gag order now in force in the government departments
made further foraging there almost useless. But Payne
would still expect a dispatch late today or early
The Titans79
tomorrow. What the hell could he send except
the news of the Douglas endorsement-which everyone else
would have too?
Feeling increasingly frustrated, he jostled his way
along the crowded plank sidewalk on the north
side of the avenue. His destination was Willard's
Hotel, one of the cockpits for Washington
gossip. There, with breakfast and a little liquid
refreshment to inspire him, he might find a way out
of his professional predicament.
For the riddle of the whereabouts of his sons he saw no
answer at all.
iv
The establishment run by the Willard brothers served
breakfast to late-rising Washington from eight until
eleven. Jephtha was in time. After he bougiht four
cigars, he took a small table in the corner of the
bar. He ordered steak and onions with fried oysters
on the side, and a double shot of Overholtz 1855,
one of the bar's best whiskeys.
The place was crowded. Government men, officials
from foreign embassies, and quite a few army and
militia officers were all jabbering about Sumter's
surrender. Most of the soldiers were already full of
liquor and bombast. The goddamned rebels who
had been flaunting the threat of secession for
decades-and who had finally acted on it, then dared
to fire on the Stars and Stripes-would be taught a
swift and humiliating lesson! Hunched over his
drink, Jephtha grimaced. If he'd gone the
other way along Pennsylvania, to the National
Hotel at Sixth, he'd have heard equally
gaseous rhetoric from the Southern sympathizers who
generally gathered there.
He interrupted his meal to dart to the bar and corner a
new arrival, a young man named Alfred Hume who
808An Oath Registered in Heaven"
was an assistant secretary at the British
embassy. He asked Hume whether the
ambassador, florid-faced Lord Lyons, had as
yet formulated a policy about recognition of the
Confederate government.
"Still a bit early for that, old chap," Hume
answered in his languid way. "Must await
instructions from Whitehall, don't y'know?"
"Come off it, Alf. Jeff Davis was
inaugurated over two months ago. Every report out
of Montgomery says he and his cabinet are going
to stand by a policy of holding Southern cotton off the
European markets. They want to use the cotton
to bargain for recognition of the South as a
sovereign nation, not a section of America in
rebellion."
Hume looked bored. "Say it again-nothing
official to report." Then he leaned closer.
"Tell you this much, though. If the chaps in the
Confederacy continue to sail on that course, they're
bloody fools."
"Why, AM?"
"Because the decision's a blunder! A complete
misreading of the economic situation. Let jolly
old Jeffey try to use his cotton to force Her
Majesty-or Nappy the Third over in France-to
recognize his so-called government, and I'm
afraid he'll find he's aiming an empty
weapon. For the first time in years, all the mills
back home and in Europe have a surplus of
cotton. So where's Jeffey going to find
recognition? Or the money to finance a war? I've
heard there's no more than twenty-five millions in
bullion in the entire South!"
"True," Jephtha replied. "And it won't go
far. There isn't a single first-rate iron mill,
rolling mill, or powder mill down there either. Those
cost money to build. Big money."
Hume's smile was smug. "Which in turn
requires the sale of the only product the South
produces in quantity comcotton. See what I
mean about an embargo? I repeat combloody
fools."
The Titans81
The assistant secretary hailed the barkeep for a
refill. It took him three calls to make himself
heard above the din. After he'd been served, he
turned to Jephtha, pursed his lips, and said,
"God, I despise this town. Chap can't find a
proper club anywhere. Just these noisy saloons.
You fellows may be our cousins, but damned if you
don't have a lot to learn about life's refinements."
"Alf, one more question about-was
"Cheer-o, Kent," the young diplomat said, turning
away and waving to another acquaintance further down the
bar. Jephtha went back to his table, smiling because
Hume was typical of the Europeans on assignment
in Washington. They considered the capital raw,
raucous comll better than a backwoods
village.
Another man Jephtha knew, a sketch artist for
Harper's Weekly, stopped by as he was finishing his
meal. After a few perfunctory words of greeting,
the artist passed along a rumor that a
political demonstration would take place on the
stage of Canterbury Hall, a popular variety
theater, the following night
Jephtha's pale eyes narrowed, "A demonstration
for which side?"
"Could be Union, could be secesh. Either way, with the
mixed crowd the Canterbury draws, it might be
lively."
A cynical look crossed Jephtha's face.
"And to what do I owe this journalistic largesse?
I don't have many colleagues who'll point me
toward a potential story."
The artist shrugged. "I'm just paying a debt. You
tipped me about Miss Chase going to see Joe
Jefferson in Rip Van Winkle. I hired the
box opposite and sketched her."
"That's right, I'd forgotten," Jephtha nodded. The
eldest daughter of Secretary of the Treasury
Chase was Washington's reigning beauty. "Well,
knowing she was attending the theater wouldn't have done me much
good. I can't draw, and her looks are what
everyone's talking
828An Oath Registered in Heaven"
about." He raised his whiskey glass. "Thanks
for the returned favor."
"Sure, Reverend. As the good book says-one good
slap on the cheek deserves another. Or something like
that."
The artist waved and left. Jephtha's face was
scarlet.
The twisted allusion to scripture wasn't
accidental. But by now he should have been able to handle the
occasional jibes about his background-which was no
secret. Somehow, he wasn't able to do it. He
hated to be called Reverend. Perhaps because he sometimes
felt guilty about turning away from the church.
From God-
No. It was the other way around. God had turned
away from him. When he'd taken a stand for Christian
principles as he understood them, he had lost the
respect of the congregations to whom he traveled.
He'd lost the right to preach. He'd lost his home.
And he'd lost the love and companionship of his
sons. His faith hadn't been strong enough to withstand that
sort of punishment.
Regardless of what it said in the Book of Job, a
God who would do all that to a man wasn't a God
worth serving.
The artist's remark had spoiled his meal He pushed
Ms plate away; made a note about the
Canterbury Hall tip. A piece on a
sectional scrap in a theater would be better than no
copy at alLike
Still, Jephtha prided himself on being a
professional. So he pored over his notes again,
hoping to find some point he'd overlooked.
To stimulate his thinking-and dull the edge of his worry
about his sons-he drained another double shot of
Overholtz. Just as he was doing so, he spied a
line that had gotten smudged while the notes were in his
pocket.
R. Lee-Arlington. The words were followed by two
large question marks.
The Titans83
Damn! There it was. Lee was only a half hour
away in Virginia-and certainly a man worth
talking to, if it comwas possible.
Anxious that someone might beat him to the source of his
inspiration, he paid his bill and hurried toward the
entrance of the Willard bar. He was momentarily
blocked by two contractors who were discussing their
hope that the rebellion would grow into a long war.
Fortunes could be made selling the Federal Army
everything from buttons to biscuits-
"Damn vultures," Jephtha muttered
as he pushed between the two men. One of them whirled;
raised a fist The other snickered:
"Calm down. That's Kent, the reporter who used
to be a preacher." The man lowered his voice.
"Look, you don't want to fool with him-he's got
a hell of a temper. He was thrown out of the Southern
Methodist Church for sermons about freeing the
niggers. Everyone in town says it left him a little
bit crazy."
CHAPTER n
Colonel Lee
JEPHTHA STARTED FOR VIRGINIA
shortly after noon, riding a mare hired at a stable
near Willard's. The sky was clearing. The pale
April sunlight seemed to accentuate the city's
raw, unfinished look. And it did precious little
to warm his bones or raise his spirits.
Some of the initial bluster of the citizenry was already
diminishing. As he jogged along the avenue near
President's Park, he saw a sidewalk
speaker haranguing a small crowd. He heard the
orator shout, "coma dire and misguided insult to the
Union! It shall be punished!" Little applause
greeted the warning. Jephtha suspected the truth
of the situation was beginning to sink in.
Washington was encircled, if not by the actual
Confederacy as yet, then by states sympathetic to it.
There could be danger-and soon.
He saw further evidence behind the iron fence of the
park. To the rattle of a drum, a local militia
company was holding a muster-in on the lawn of the War
Department. He recognized the uniforms of the
National Rifles, an organization riddled with
Southern partisans. How much help they'd be in
defending the capital was debatable.
He turned south at Fourteenth Street and
crossed the canal on the high iron bridge. He
nearly gagged at the stench below. Once across to the
Mall, the surroundings were only slightly more
pleasant. Through the trees

The Titans85
on his left he glimpsed the red stone towers of the
Smithsonian and the Capitol with its unfinished wings
and dome. Construction sheds, blocks of marble,
stacks of lumber littered the Capitol grounds.
He guided the mare around the maggot-covered corpse
of a mongrel lying in the mud on the Mall's south
side.
As he neared the city end of Long
Bridge, traffic increased. Farmers bringing milk
and produce into town created a jam with their
vehicles. Jephtha managed to ride through. As he
clattered onto the bridge over the broad river,
he saw, at the far end, disheartening proof of
Washington's precarious situation.
Two blue-clad United States cavalrymen
sat on their horses, rifled muskets resting across
their thighs. The cavalrymen watched the continuous flow
of wagons and carts passing over the bridge. Before
long, Jephtha guessed, there would be more than just
mounted pickets on duty. He put down a
mental wager tl backslash at by the end of the week,
Winfield Scott would be protecting the Long
Bridge with cannon.
ii
Passing between the cavalry pickets, Jephtha got
an even greater shock. A powerful-looking man sat
on the ground against the largest of several blossoming
cherry trees growing near the riverbank. Though the
man had his hat brim slanted over his eyes and
appeared to be resting, Jephtha recognized him
instantly-and knew he wasn't resting at all. Like
the cavalrymen, he was observing those crossing the
bridge; particularly those headed south.
What the devil was a disreputable bully like that doing
in Washington?
Jephtha kept going. He had no intention of
acknowledging the man's presence. The man had other
plans.
g6Colonel Lee
He tilted up his hat; gave Jephtha a long
stare and a faint smile. Then he rose, dusted off
the seat of his pants and walked toward the road.
Uneasy, Jephtha reined in. Beneath Samuel
Dorn's tight-fitting coat, he noticed a
small bulge. A concealed pistol-
Dorn stopped in front of Jephtha's horse.
"Hallo, Reverend."
The man was young, with a blocky Teutonic face,
blue eyes and yellow hair curling around his ears.
None too bright, Jephtha recalled from their first
meeting down at the depot on February 23.
He'd been wakened that morning by an informant-a boy
he paid to keep watch on the comings and goings of
notables. The boy breathlessly told him of
Lincoln's arrival at six on a regular
passenger train, ahead of the Presidential
Special due later that day. Jephtha had rushed
down to the station and tried to interview Allan
Pinkerton and some of his men who had helped smuggle
Lincoln into the capital.
"Mr. Dorn," Jephtha returned with a slight
nod.
The blue eyes fixed on him. "Visiting
Virginia today, are you?"
"I can't see that should concern the Pinkerton
detective bureau. Or anyone else, for that
matter."
"Hell, it's only a friendly question. I just happened
to be resting here-was
"Spying on travelers?"
Dorn's cheeks reddened. "Watching," he
snapped. "The word is watching."
"Whatever the word-or the assignment-I'm damned if
I know where you get the authority for it."
Dorn struggled to control his anger. "The chief and a
few of the operatives are in town on a special
job-was
"If I recall, Mr. Pinkerton is under
contract to protect the property of the
Philadelphia, Washington and Baltimore-and
you're a good distance from the rail
The Titans87
road's right-of-way. Isn't it up
north? Or has there been an extension I don't
know about?"
The man didn't like the sarcasm. "We're looking
over the security of the railroad facilities here.
If it's any of your business."
"No, it isn't," Jephtha returned. "But it
is my business when you question my right to enter
Virginia."
"Nobody's questioning anything," Dorn shrugged. "If
you want to mix with a crowd of traitors-was
"See here-was
"comif you have, ah, some special reason for wanting
to mingle with them-carrying a little message, maybe-was
"Get out of my way, Mr. Dorn!"
Dorn actually looked pleased. Pinkerton, the
shrewd Scot who had built a successful
Illinois detective bureau, was at least
intelligent. But some of the men he was forced to hire were
little more than thugs. An all- too-plain
anticipation lit Dorn's eyes:
"That's pretty strong talk for a gospel man."
"I'm a reporter and you know it."
"But the chief told me about your-ah-former job. The
one that didn't turn out so well-was
"Get the hell out of my way!"
Suddenly Dorn's right hand shot up, fastening hard
on Jephtha's left arm.
"Don't be so goddamn snotty, Kent. We
did come down to survey the yards and the trackage.
But we're doing some special work for one of the gents
in the government, too."
Hoping to startle an admission out of the detective,
Jephtha said instantly, "Seward?"
The detective had wits enough to control his tongue:
"Afraid I can't answer that. But I'll warn
you-there is a close watch being kept on people who come
over the bridge."
"Well, you just run back to your chief and tell him
88Colonel Lee
Jephtha Kent went to Arlington. To talk to a man
who's given thirty-five years of his life to the
United States. And who knows more about good manners,
I suspect, than you ever will."
Savagely, Jephtha wrenched his arm free.
Dorn started to reach beneath his coat; checked his hand at
the last moment. His eyes were venomous:
"Y'know, Reverend, I didn't like you the first time we
met. I didn't take to the way you badgered and
pushed and asked questions down at the depot-was
Jephtha shrugged. "Happens to be my
job."
"May be. But-was
"As I recall, you were doing most of the shoving. And
making all the threats about a fight."
Dorn rubbed an index finger across his upper lip.
"Reverend, you want to climb down from that horse?"
"For what purpose?"
"We're going to finish what I should have finished at the
station."
Calmly, Jephtha answered, "No, thank you."
That amused the detective. "Why not? I won't
bruise your nice Christian face too much.
"Less of course it's a yella streak that holds
you back."
"You damned, ignorant-was
"Or maybe it's your preacher's training. I
wouldn't guess a preacher could hold his own against a
real
man."
Jephtha flushed, ready to jump from the saddle and
knock Dorn's insult down his throat.
Jephtha's years of itinerating on horseback had
kept him lean and well- muscled-characteristics he
hadn't lost. But he didn't dismount, though Dorn
obviously hoped he would. His task at the
moment was to reach Lee.
"I'll oblige you some other time," he promised.
"When I feel up to taking on a baboon."
He hammered his heels against the mare. She bolted
The Titans89
forward, giving him a last, blurred impression of
Dorn red in the cheeks and grabbing for the hidden
pistol.
Jephtha's face broke out in a sweat. His spine
prickled as he trotted toward the bend of the road that
would take him safely out of pistol range. He
didn't look back. But he didn't relax
until he was certain the contour of a hill had cut
off Dorn's view.
No doubt Samuel Dorn thought he had good
reason for enmity. That morning at the depot, Dorn
and the other Pinkerton men had been forced to shove
Jephtha away repeatedly, while Jephtha
attempted to find out whether the President-elect
had indeed been smuggled into Washington at
Pinkerton's insistence and under his guidance.
Unsettling as the confrontation with the bad- tempered
detective had been, Jephtha was even more disturbed
by his presence on the Virginia side of the Long
Bridge. As far as Jephtha knew,
Allan Pinkerton's agency only served various
railroads and had no official connection with the
United States Government, other than when
Lincoln traveled to Washington on the public
railroads.
The bearded detective was a protege" of a once-
promising young army officer, Captain George
Brinton McClellan. But McClellan had
resigned the service a few years ago to take up
a more lucrative civilian career. He had quickly
become vice-president of the Illinois Central
Railroad and then had advanced to the presidency of the
eastern division of the Ohio and Mississippi.
He kept Pinkerton operatives busy guarding the
property of his lines.
Perhaps the detective and his men had been secretly
summoned to Washington over the weekend, as the
Government's concern at the threat of an invasion
mounted. Of-one thing Jephtha was virtually certain.
Dorn could have no official assignment at the Long
Bridge. As he'd admitted, he was simply
doing a favor
90Colonel Lee
for someone in high places. The fact that unofficial
spying was already underway showed again how deep the
mood of distrust and fear had become-
Jephtha had a healthy fear of a brute like Dorn.
Such men were drawn to work that permitted them to indulge
their fondness for bullying others. They could develop
an instant and permanent dislike for anyone who
challenged their authority-which was precisely what
Jephtha had done with his persistent questioning at the station.
He hoped he wouldn't encounter the Pinkerton maft
again.
With a start, he realized Dorn would probably still be
lounging by the tree when he returned from Lee's
home. Well, he'd meet that problem later. Right
now he wanted a story.
He urged the mare into a canter.
He'd ridden no more than a few hundred yards when
another thought drove the memory of Dorn from his
mind. He felt the pain born of remembering-
He was on Southern soil.
In Virginia-where he'd lost so much of himself. So
much that was precious to him-
Cantering through the pleasant countryside toward
Arlington, he thought that very little had actually changed
since the day more than fifteen years ago when he'd
passed through the northern part of the state, a new
pastor bound for the little town of Lexington in
the Shenandoah Valley. Yet everything had changed.
And change was one cause of the dilemma that had
swept the South into secession, and war.
The American nation-the whole world, in fact- was being
pounded by the tides of change. The cottage
industries were dying, replaced by the huge smoky in
The Titans91
dustrial plants he'd first encountered when he was on
his way to Vermont for pastoral training.
Jephtha had been born in the mountains bordering the
Pacific, child of the mountain man Jared Kent, who
had seen his livelihood disappear along with the demand
for beaver pelts. Before wandering down to the California
gold fields at the start of the great rush of "49,
Jared had struggled unsuccessfully as a farmer in the
valleys of Oregon. Jephtha's mother, Grass
Singing, had raised her son to have great reverence for a
universal Deity. And so, despite his father's
objections, he'd offered his life to God with the help
of one of the first Methodist missionaries who had come
to the Willamette Valley. He'd journeyed
east to the Biblical Institute-and had gazed in
wonder at the dark, clattering manufactories
ushering in a new age.
As a new, young minister, Jephtha had
quickly acquired a liking for Virginians-whom he
found to be typical of most Southerners. They were
hardworking people; devout yet high spirited; honorable;
hospitable. Soon, though, his liking had become
tainted by a growing moral anguish over the slave
question.
Only later, after he'd courted and wed Fan
Tunworth and started raising a family, did it
occur to him that perhaps industrialization had caught the
South in a trap not entirely of its own devising.
As the North began to assert its dominance with the
factory system, she locked the South into a set of
circumstances which prohibited easy change.
The spuming works of the Northeast and Europe demanded
huge quantities of cotton. To supply this world
market, the South had clung to slave-based
agriculture comat a time when it should have been
developing its own industrial base. The refusal
to acknowledge the need for change was more than saddening.
It was disastrous.
To Jephtha, Virginians such as his wife's father,
Cap
92Colonel .lee
tain Virgil Tunworth, were pathetically
unrealistic about the way industrialization was
trapping them. So they blinded themselves to the evils of the
system on which they were increasingly dependent. They
convinced themselves-in part because they had to-that slavery was
altogether right, proper, and immutable. In Jephtha's
eyes the sectional crisis was rooted not only in a
peculiarly American problem-Constitutional
interpretation comb in an issue that was global in
scope: change, and the resistance to it
There was another facet to the problem of change.
Since the days when Jephtha's great-grandfather,
Philip Kent, had fired his musket against the
King's troops at Concord bridge and fought side
by side with Southerners to win American liberty, the
South had virtually dominated American
politics. Now that too was over. The swollen
cities of the Northeast and the expanding population of the
Northwest had combined to bring forth the first truly
successful sectional party-the Republicans. The
traditional party of the North and South-the One and
Indivisible Democracy as its adherents liked
to call it-had been hopelessly divided on
ideological grounds.
Change. Change-
It backed a man into a corner.
It robbed him of power he'd once
savored.
And a man thus trapped often fought to protect or
restore the old ways. Fought with desperation; with an
almost religious fervor.
No single incident had aroused the South's
militant spirit more than the almost totally foredoomed
Harper's Ferry raid in October of '59. With
twenty-one men, the abolitionist John Brown had
attempted to seize the little town's Federal
armory-in preparation for exhorting Southern blacks
to rise up against their masters. Brown's scheme, many
said, was secretly financed by Boston money. During
its planning, it had been referred
The Titans93
to by a code phrSse-"the speculation in wool."
Thanks to the swift action of Colonel Lee and that
detachment of Marines Lincoln had mentioned, the
raid had failed. And the Virginians who'd brought
Brown to justice had given him an exceptionally
fair trial before sending him to the gallows.
In the jail at Charles Town where he'd awaited
hanging, the condemned man had written, "I,
John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of
this guilty land will never be purged away but with
blood."
The words had a special significance for
Jephtha. He'd stood dry-mouthed and trembling
among the reporters who'd watched the mad-eyed old
man climb the gallows steps with remarkable
composure-then drop moments later, his neck
snapped.
Jephtha knew of Brown's passion for a verse in the
ninth chapter of Paul's epistle to the Hebrews.
Time and again, he was haunted by the realization that,
centuries ago, the great Apostle had foretold that
the present:
"And almost all things are by the law purged with
blood," and "without shedding of blood is no
remission."
While he was still a preacher, and zealous to the point of
fanaticism, Jephtha had interpreted the
passage as only a condemnation of the slave system;
a promise of punishment for the South, and for those who
permitted its peculiar institution to flourish. Now
he saw the verse in broader and more tragic terms.
It applied to the entire nation. It warned of the fate
of men of good will who had failed to reach an
accommodation before it was too late.
That God permitted such a failure was one more
reason Jephtha had stayed away from the
church. It was Christ the merciful and forgiving in whom
Jephtha had believed most passionately. Now
events were being directed comif indeed there was any
controlling hand at all-by a vengeful God; the
God of the Old Testament who had somehow spoken a
prophecy of this hour
94Colonel Lee
through Christ's own disciple-and who now seemed
determined to let suffering, not mercy, rule.
Brown's raid had ignited fearful fires of
emotionalism in all parts of the country. Throughout the
South the scheme to foment an uprising stirred
memories of horror that lay at the base of the
section's fear of Negro freedom. In the past,
black men themselves had made other
attempts-grisly ones-to redress the wrongs
done to them. Harper's Ferry conjured the ghost of the
quasi-preacher, Nat Turner, who had led a mob
of his fellow slaves on a rampage in
Virginia's Southampton County in 1831,
leaving a trail of fifty-seven innocent men,
women and children killed and mutilated before he was caught
and hanged. That was the ever-present specter. Free
blacks turning on those who had used them.
Jephtha saw Brown for what he was: a
vicious murderer. But to add to the humiliation and
anger of the South, the abolitionists equated him with
history's great martyrs. With Socrates. With
Christ Himself. Emerson wept over his downfall.
The daughter of Amos Bronson Alcott, the
reformer, herself a popular writer, Louisa May
Alcott, called him "Saint John." In
France, Victor Hugo praised him
extravagantly-
Factors complex and beyond clear separation had led to this
evil time. On both sides, men of narrow mind had
fostered the evil. And a God Jephtha no longer
trusted had permitted it to happen.
"And without shedding of blood is no remission-was
Well, there would be blood in plenty now, Jephtha
thought. Blood and suffering beyond any American's
power to predict or comprehend.
Tell me, Mr. Lincoln, he said to himself as he
rode. Where in all the dark thafs coming down do you
catch sight of those better angels of our nature?
I see not one.
The Titans95
IV
As Jephtha drew near the heights of Arlington
and the splendid house overlooking the river,
he wondered whether change ever worked to a man's
favor. He himself had undergone profound changes.
And although he accepted his current lot, he was often
depressed and miserable about it.
After his personal moral torment forced him to speak out
against the mistreatment of blacks, he had been denied
a pulpit by the Methodist Episcopal Church,
South, one of the two bodies left when the Church
itself split over the slave question. His outspoken
position had led to bitter arguments with his wife, and
ultimately to his banishment from their house in
Lexington. Strong in her beliefs, Fan had even
turned his own sons against him.
Refusing to leave the town, Jephtha hadn't been
content with passive martyrdom. He'd involved
himself in the business of smuggling runaway slaves
north to freedom.
His partner had been a quirky, unpleasant man
named Syme. In 1852 they arranged the flight of a
young Negro girl who belonged to Captain
Tunworth. They sent her to Jephtha's cousin
once removed, the wealthy Amanda Kent of New
York City. Syme had been caught, then
tortured into confessing. Jephtha barely escaped
with a few personal belongings, including the
copybooks-his journal-in which he'd recorded his
most personal thoughts year by year. He fled
to Washington, then went on to New York.
When he arrived, he found that Amanda was dead. The
interior of her mansion was in mins. It had been
invaded by a mob that had come partly because she'd
96Colonel Lee
been sheltering the runaway girl. Amanda had been
shot during the attack.
What remained of the household was in the care of
Michael Boyle, the young Irish boy from the slums
who had worked as Amanda's clerk and had grown close
to her. As she lay dying, she'd appointed Michael
the legal guardian of her son Louis,
Jephtha's second cousin. Today, Louis managed
the affairs of the family with Michael's assistance.
Jephtha had never liked or trusted Louis. And the
boy had been too young-and too preoccupied with
himself-to be of any assistance when Jephtha first
arrived in New York. It was Michael who had
helped him rebuild his ruined life. Almost
by accident.
Throughout 1853 and "54 Jephtha had gone through a
period of almost total despair. His wife informed
him by letter that she was obtaining a divorce, and
he would be denied the privilege of seeing his sons
again. Another letter in '55 announced she had married
the actor Edward Lamont, whom she'd met while
visiting her father's relatives in Charleston.
During those years Jephtha hadn't lived-merely
existed in the rebuilt house in Madison
Square. He repaid Michael's charity as best he
could, working as a handyman and doing chores the servants
found too arduous or too distasteful.
Of course, Michael reminded him often that he
really didn't need to spend his days doing drudge
work. He was a rich man. Amanda had proved a good
steward of the profits of the Ophir mining operation in
California's Sierra mountains. She had invested
those profits in quality stocks, further compounding the
wealth that belonged to the Virginia branch of the
family.
But Jephtha had an almost childlike disregard for
money-perhaps a legacy from his Shoshoni mother, who had
taught him to place a higher value on the mind and the
spirit. He had no desire to travel to California
The Titans97
to learn the mining business. Mathematics and all the
other associated skills required for successful
management of a fortune were foreign to him.
He was content to continue the old arrangement; to let the
family's financial advisers, and Louis when he
came of age, administer his holdings. At his death
the accumulated riches would pass directly
to Gideon, Matthew and Jeremiah. A document was
drawn up by the Kent attorneys guaranteeing it.
Jephtha wasn't sure wealth would benefit his
sons. It became increasingly clear that money
hadn't improved Louis Kent's character very much. If
anything, the young man had grown arrogant because of his
wealth. Still, Jephtha knew he had no right to deny
his sons their heritage when he died; nor would he
ever attempt to do so. One of the stormiest periods of
his relationship with his former wife concerned that very point.
When he'd signed the paper permitting Amanda
to handle the Ophir funds, Fan had accused him of
defrauding the boys. It had been one of her most
vituperative outbursts. The memory of it could still
generate hatred of a most un-Christian sort.
Gradually, Jephtha and Michael formed a strong
friendship. They debated endlessly about the slave question.
Michael was candid about his own difficult transition
from the behavior patterns of a boy growing up in the
Five Points slum. There, the immigrant
Irish hated black men because black men,
freed, would compete for menial jobs-the only kind the
immigrant Irish could get.
Amanda had brought Michael a long way from that
attitude. He now believed America would have
to decide, soon and for all time, whether the
principles of equality on which the country was founded
did or did not apply to all men.
It was during one of their long night chats that
Jephtha had first shown the young Irishman a portion
of
98Colonel Lee
the record of his own pilgrimage of the soul. His
carefully kept journals; eighteen copybooks
whose contents spanned the years since he had come east
to attend the Bible college.
Michael was taken with Jephtha's writing style-
something to which Jephtha had never given any special
notice. Michael grew excited, struck by an
idea. Jephtha ought to use his brain for something more
constructive than shoveling up turds in the coach
house behind the mansion. Michael made a specific
suggestion.
At first Jephtha laughed. But Michael was
persuasive. So Jephtha had permitted the younger
man to introduce him to Theophilus
Payne. Tentatively, andwitha feeling of great
trepidation, he'd gone to work for Payne.
Initially he'd been confined to a desk in Printing
House Square, doing the simplest sort of editing
and proofreading. To his surprise, he found he
both liked the work and had a talent for it. He asked
Payne for more responsibility. Within a year of
starting at the Union, he was put on his own as a
general reporter.
Despite his share of beginner's blunders, he
succeeded. Even drew an occasional compliment from the
editor about a particular story. When the Union's
Washington correspondent died of a stroke,
Jephtha was chosen to replace him.
Payne lectured him before he left for the capital.
The assignment had nothing to do with Jephtha's
family connections. He had become a good
reporter; an able writer, aggressive in his search
for news. If his performance didn't continue at that
high level he'd be recalled. Fair enough,
Jephtha said, excited by the new challenge.
In Washington he'd performed well enough so that the
possibility of recall soon vanished. He
took to cigars; to whiskey. Then to a woman whose bed
he now shared without benefit of wedlock.
Ten years earlier
The Titans99
such behavior would have struck him as grossly
immoral. In terms of biblical absolutes,
no doubt it still was. But like the South, he had been
faced with an alternative. Change-or suffer as a
prisoner of the past. He'd changed. Perhaps not
entirely for the better. But at least he'd managed
to build a new life out of the wreckage of the old.
He seldom read scripture these days-and never with the
full, mystic faith of his youth. That, together with the
cigars, the whiskey, and Molly, occasionally
produced painful twinges of guilt.
But he was free of his yesterdays-
As free, that is, as a father could be. The past still
exerted a hold on him because of his sons.
Sometimes he could bring himself to a calm understanding of the
reason Fan had turned the boys against him. She
believed she was right and he was dangerously wrong on
the question of Negro freedom. Still, her actions had
left scars. Occasionally, in the darkest part of the
night, he would awaken sweating from a nightmare in which
he saw himself striking his former wife. He was fearful
that if he ever encountered Fan again he might not be able
to refrain from doing her injury. His
capacity for hate was a harrowing truth about himself that
he couldn't wish away, despite the warning of a
remembered passage from Proverbs:
"Whoso diggeth a pit shall jail therein: and he that
rolleth a stone, it will return upon him."
In his own way, he supposed, he was as wicked as
those men, North and South, who had fomented a war out
of their hatreds and would now feel the crushing weight
of the stone rolling back upon them.
Jephtha jogged the mare up the long sunlit drive
to the pillared house familiar to everyone in the
capital.
He had no idea where his boys were. Nor did his
friend at the Virginia Military Institute in
Lexington,
100Colonel Lee
Professor Thomas Jackson, with whom he
corresponded occasionally.
Jackson wasn't on good terms with Fan's father,
because of the way Tunworth abused his slaves.
Consequently he knew nothing about Fan, her children
or her new spouse, he wrote. And he doubted
Tunworth would give him an answer even if he
inquired.
Once, in a moment of extreme
despair, Jephtha had asked Jackson whether a
visit to Lexington would be safe. He could make
inquiries in person-
Bluntly, Jackson warned him to stay away. His
name was still remembered. He would certainly get no
cooperation. He might even find his life in
jeopardy.
From time to time Jephtha saw a reference to Fan's
husband in an old issue of a Southern paper.
Twice he'd written to theaters where Lamont had
been playing. One of the letters had been returned
bearing a notation that the troupe had moved on. He'd
heard nothing from the second. He supposed the boys
might be traveling with their stepfather. But relying on
outdated newspapers to verify it proved futile.
Of one thing Jephtha was dismally sure. With Fan
to inspire them, the boys might be hurt-die-in the
coming war.
He shook his head and slowed the mare to a walk as he
approached Arlington House. The mansion had a
solid, serene look. Twin wings extended from the
massive main building to add a pleasing symmetry
and create a facade Jephtha guessed to be something
like a hundred and fifty feet wide. The entire
building was stuccoed brick, painted over in
buff with white trim. Its most imposing feature
was its portico-exceptionally deep; at least
twenty-five feet. Eight mammoth Doric
columns supported the classic pediment.
A savory smell of wood smoke drifted from
vine- covered brick outbuildings he'd passed on
his ride up the hillside. He dismounted, tied the
mare to a ring
The Titans101
block below the portico steps, and wiped sweat from his
forehead with a pocket kerchief. Across the river below the
tree-shaded lawn the sprawling city with its
familiar landmarks had a deceptive look of
sunlit calm.
Standing with one dark-skinned hand on the neck of the
horse, Jephtha suddenly wished he still had enough
faith to say a prayer; enough faith to ask God
to protect the lives of his sons, even if he never
saw them again-
But he didn't.
The huge portico was cool with shadow. Jephtha
hesitated before touching the great door knocker. The
house itself seemed to speak of the sadness of disunion.
Poor arthritic Mary Lee, the colonel's
wife-seldom seen in Washington any
longer-was the daughter of George Washington's
adopted son, George Washington Parke
Custis. The colonel's father, Light-Horse
Harry, had served the general as a hard-fighting
cavalry officer during the Revolution. At the first
president's funeral, Light-Horse Harry had
spoken the words that had lingered in the common memory ever
since: "First in war, first in peace, and first in the
hearts of his countrymen." If most Americans
felt a sense of despair today, how much deeper it
must be for the inhabitants of this mansion; people whose
forebears had done so much to create and nurture the
nation.
Feeling somewhat like the violator of a shrine,
Jephtha let the knocker fall.
Presently an elderly white housekeeper
answered.
"Yes, sir?"
"Forgive the intrusion, ma'am. My name is Kent.
I'm a journalist with a New York paper-was
The housekeeper's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
102Colonel Lee
"If Colonel Lee's at home, I'd
appreciate a few moments of his time."
The woman started to shut the door. "The
colonel is not seeing-was
"Who's there, Hattie?" The housekeeper frowned.
She was forced to turn and answer:
"Some fellow from a newspaper, Colonel Lee."
Jephtha heard the sound of boots and then the door
swung all the way open.
Though Washington was a relatively small city,
Jephtha had never seen Robert Edward Lee in
person until now. He judged him about
fifty-five, not quite six feet, and powerfully
built. Because his legs were slender, his chest,
shoulders, and head looked huge by comparison.
Lee was dressed in civilian trousers and a loose
linen shirt. A full black mustache contrasted with
his graying hair. He had a large nose, kindly
brown eyes, and an air of quiet assurance that
helped explain why he'd been so successful in the
army. His expression, though guarded, wasn't
unfriendly:
"I'm Colonel Lee, Mr.-?"
"Kent. Jephtha Kent. Washington
correspondent for the New York Union."
Lee extended his hand. "How do you do? I'm sorry
to tell you I have nothing to say for the public
record."
Somehow Jephtha felt audacity would be more
effective than a meek thank you and goodbye. He
took the chance:
"I can understand that, Colonel. However, I did
ride a good distance in the hope you'd be home. I
realize I'm intruding on your privacy. But you
are a public figure. You'll forgive me if I
say I'll be very unhappy if you send me back
to the city empty-handed."
"Why, of all the Yankee gall!" the housekeeper
exclaimed.
The Titans103
Lee held up a hand. His eyes sparkled with
amusement:
"Come now, Hattie. Mr. Kent's boldness is
commendable." He stepped back. "I'm afraid you
will go back empty-handed. But you're welcome to step
in and refresh yourself with some lemonade."
"Thank you," Jephtha grinned. He was inside in
a second. Hattie vanished, harrumphing.
Lee closed the door. He led Jephtha across the
spacious, high-ceilinged central hall and into a
parlor on the north side. On the walls hung
portraits of eighteenth-century women. One
Jephtha recognized as Martha
Washington. Arlington House was supposedly a
museum of George Washington's possessions.
Across the hall, in a formal dining room, he spied
a cabinet displaying fine china. From Mount Vernon?
Lee showed him to a chair. "Are you surprised I
let you in, Mr. Kent?"
"Yes, sir, a little."
"Well, there's no mystery to it. Indecision and fear
are the two greatest enemies men face on a
battlefield. I've never put much stock in a
soldier who was unwilling to gamble everything for a
victory. I much prefer a fellow who risks it
all, and loses, to the one who risks nothing. Sit
down, sit down."
Lee removed some papers from his own chair, laid
them on a table along with a pair of reading
spectacles, and seated himself.
"I must tell you, sir-you're the first journalist
who's had the courage to show up at my front
door."
"I am sorry if I disturbed you. But as I said,
your name's constantly in the air over in Washington.
I've heard General Scott wants to name you
commander of the army."
"Mr. Kent, please-I have nothing
to say."
Yet it was evident from Lee's expression that
Jephtha's remark caused a painful reaction.
104Colonel Lee
There was a pause as Hattie brought in a tray with
pitcher and glasses. While the housekeeper poured
Jephtha's drink, he had a chance to study the
colonel.
Robert Lee's military career had been long and
distinguished. He'd been trained in engineering at
West Point. Earned commendations in the war with
Mexico. Directed several major projects
for the Corps of Engineers, including one to widen and
improve the Mississippi channel near St.
Louis. He'd even spent a period as
superintendent of the military academy from which he'd
graduated. In February he'd returned from
Texas, where he'd been second in command. At that
time his superior had peacefully surrendered the San
Antonio arsenal and all other Federal posts to the
state government.
Lee saluted Jephtha with his lemonade. He
sipped, then smiled in a rueful way:
"I'nrat a loss as to how we can carry on a
conversation, Mr. Kent. I don't want
anything I say put into print."
"But people are anxious to hear whether you'd accept command
of the army."
Lee shook his head. "No such offer has been
made. And you must remember-Virginia is my
native state. You realize the convention is meeting
in Richmond at this very hour-was
Again Jephtha decided on boldness. He set the
frosty glass aside and leaned forward:
"Colonel, let me make a proposal. If
you'll talk with me candidly-for the record-I
promise you I'll file no dispatch until the
Richmond convention acts and you announce your
future plans."
"By heaven, Mr. Kent, you do have nerve!"
"Just as you said about soldiers, Colonel-a
journalist can't succeed without it."
Lee smiled. "A good journalist." He sobered.
"Still, you're asking me to trust you."
The Titans105
"To trust a man I've never seen before-was
Jephtha knew that if he avoided Lee's gaze,
he was finished. He didn't so much as blink.
"That's right."
Lee scrutinized him a moment longer.
Then he laughed.
"Well, sir, you've offered the dearest thing a man
owns. His honor. And I assume you've offered it
in good faith. I accept your terms."
Jubilant, Jephtha pulled out scraps of paper
and a pencil. He pondered his first question before he uttered
it:
"You've never been called a partisan of slavery,
Colonel. Have you changed that position at all?"
"I haven't." Lee rose and walked to the window
overlooking the river. "I don't think the nigras
are ready for full emancipation. I believe the time
will come eventually, however. Few enlightened
Christians would deny slavery is a moral and
political evil-was He turned back. "I've
also observed that when one man holds another in
bondage, it often turns the master into a worse
brute than the slave. I'm of the opinion slavery
is even more degrading for whites than it is for
blacks." He thought a moment. "On the other hand,
the South has been sorely aggrieved by the North's
constant hostility. In the face of that, my own state
has acted with admirable restraint. And ma spirit of
conciliation. The special convention-was
"The secession convention," Jephtha
interrupted softly.
"Call it what you will. You know its members are men
of impeccable integrity. Former President Tyler,
for one. The convention's been deliberating since
February-was
"Excuse me, sir, is that restraint or just a
symptom of worry about the numerical superiority
of the North?"
1Lee folded down a finger of his right hand.
"Mr. Stuart of Staunton-an avowed unionist."
?"
He folded down a second finger.
"Ballard Preston-an advocate of
compromise."
The third finger.
"Mr. Randolph, who stands foursquare for
secession. You know what happened at the meeting on
Saturday. The commission got absolutely no
concrete assurances. Just some vague statements from
our-from the President that naturally he'd never be so
imprudent as to attempt to coerce any sovereign
state. He said that in the face of Buchanan's
blatant attempt to put the Star of the West
into Charleston harbor with provisions and military
reinforcements for Fort Sumter!"
"I'd point out that President Lincoln is not
President Buchanan, sir."
06Colonel Lee
Jephtha realized he'd said the wrong thing. Lee's
mild eyes lit with annoyance:
"We are speaking of a matter of principle, Mr.
Kent-not courage versus cowardice. I like to think
we have very little of the latter here in the Old
Dominion."
"My apologies-you're entirely correct. I
didn't mean to imply otherwise."
"But you did choose to ignore the record. Who
issued a plea for a peace conference with delegates from
every state? Virginia did. That nothing came of the
conference is not Virginia's fault. But that didn't
end our effort. Just last Friday-with the Montgomery
Provisional Government already in operation, and
General Beauregard's bombardment underway-our
convention sent three men to see President
Lincoln, hoping to learn whether he really wants
war with what some choose to call the departed sisters."
"Yes, I'm aware of the commission."
"Distinguished men, every one. Honorable men- and
fairly chosen to represent the spectrum of
opinion-was
The Titans107
"Granted. But both represent Federal
authority. We saw Buchanan's true colors
in January. This month-in Mr. Chew's
message to Charleston-we saw Mr. Lincoln's.
Frankly, I can discern little difference."
"But the Southern side opened the fire at
Charleston, Colonel."
"And again, if my information from Richmond is
correct, a great many of the delegates consider that
to have been ill-advised. However-was Lee sighed.
"The whole matter is not under any direct control
of mine. I will say this. Regardless of the actions of
either side- whether correct or misguided is for
history to judge-I see no greater calamity than
a dissolution of the Union. Right after I came
home, I told a friend over in Washington that if
I owned four million slaves, I would sell,
free, sacrifice every last one of them to preserve the
country. Secession is anarchy-was
"Then you really don't approve of what the cotton
states have done? Or what your own government in
Richmond might be doing right now?"
Lee replied crisply, "I believe I've said
enough on the subject. More lemonade?"
"No, thank you." Jephtha wrote rapidly.
Then: "What will you do if the Richmond convention
does declare the state out of the Union?"
Lee rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I detest
war, Mr. Kent. It's not a glorious business as
some pretend. It's tragic. It's even more
tragic now that one section has taken arms against the
other. As late as February, when General
Twiggs surrendered the Texas garrisons, I had
faith in the eventual triumph of reason. I still have
faith-was
But it was weakening, Jephtha suspected. Lee's
eyes were melancholy as he went on:
"Yet I'm firm on one count." He took a
slow breath. "I could never draw my sword against
my native state."
"In other words, Virginia's war would be your war?"
108Colonel Lee
"That's correct."
Jephtha shivered. Lee had spoken without
bravado; almost with a note of sadness in his voice.
But there was no doubt about his determination.
For several seconds Jephtha stared at what he'd
jotted down. Then, slowly, he folded the pieces
of paper and tucked them in a pocket.
Lee looked surprised:
"You've no more questions?"
"No, sir. Your last answer covered almost everything
else I could ask. Covered your whole future, you
might say-was
Lee frowned. "I imagine it did, didn't it?"
Touched by the gentle courtliness of the man, Jephtha
said softly, "It told me what you'll do if and when
Virginia votes to secede. You'll resign from
Federal service, won't you?"
Lee's shoulder's seemed to slump a little. He
rose again; moved back to the window and gazed down through
the sunlit parklands sloping to the Potomac. Finally
he said:
"Yes."
Jephtha had seldom heard a single syllable
convey so much unhappiness. Lee spun back all
at once, his voice firmer:
"But I'm relying on your word that you won't print-was
"Colonel, I promised. I won't print it
until you've made your decision public."
"That may come soon. This week-next-events are
rushing too fast-was
"And I've prevailed on your courtesy long
enough. Jephtha stood up. They shook
hands a second time.
Lee ushered him through the airy front hall and
watched while he mounted the mare. From the shadow cast
by one of the pillars, Lee said:
"I compliment you again on your boldness, Mr. Kent.
were you ever a soldier?"
M
The Titans109
"No, sir. I used to be a minister. Here in
Virginia, in fact. Lexington."
"Indeed! Do you know my old comrade Tom
Jackson?"
Jephtha smiled. "I certainly do. He was my
only friend when the bishop removed me for preaching against
slavery. Jackson welcomed me into his home
when hardly anyone else in town would speak to me.
He found me a job at the Military Institute
where he teaches-was
"A good man. A Christian," Lee added by way
of endorsement. He took a step into the sunlight.
"You spoke out, did you?"
"Yes."
"Well, that seems to fit with your character-was It was meant
as a compliment. "Are you an abolitionist?"
"I am-though I'd prefer to see slavery
ended without a fight. Too many Southerners have been
blamed for the sins of a few. I was married to a
Virginia girl for a time. I loved the people to whom I
ministered. I wouldn't wish them ill even today. I'd
just welcome an end to all the bitterness-and the
peculiar institution at the same time."
"I'm afraid there weren't enough men of your persuasion
in positions of influence in the North or the South,"
Lee said. "Now it's almost too late. The fools
on both sides who pant for the death of their enemies
will rue it."
Jephtha shivered. He wondered if Lee, a
devoutly religious man, knew John Brown's
favorite passage from Hebrews.
"Colonel, thank you again." He forced himself
to invoke a power he wasn't sure he believed
in. "God be with you whatever your final choice."
With a gentle smile, Lee said, "He will be,
Mr. Kent That's my only rock of salvation in
what we've turned into a mad, bloody world."
110Colonel Lee
Jephtha started off, twisting in the saddle when Lee
hailed him:
"Mr. Kent-to " His
"Yes, Colonel?"
"I just wanted to tell you-I think you'd have made a
very good officer."
Jephtha waved and rode on. Lee stepped back
and stood watching, once again enfolded by the shadows of the
portico.
VI
For the first few moments of his homeward ride,
Jephtha was again overcome with gloom.
In the President he'd interviewed this morning and the
army officer General Scott valued above all
others, he saw the essence of the tragedy that was breaking
like a torrential storm. Neither Lincoln nor
Lee was a hothead. Both were men of principle;
conviction-titanic figures who seemed to loom
larger than life because of their prominence on the national
scene. Yet both were intensely human; this very day,
he'd glimpsed suffering in the eyes of each of them.
It seemed a wicked irony that men of such character had
been helpless to prevent the storm-and an unspeakable
cruelty that they now had to suffer its fury.
He disthought of other brave, tragic figures in the
drama. Douglas, who had first tried so
desperately to bring accord between the antagonistic
sections, then gone South in the last hours of the
election campaign. His presidential
ambitions in ruins, he'd spoken on platform after
platform-often at peril of his life- declaring that the
Union was more important than the wishes of the
violent few. He'd had the courage to stand before
hostile crowds and cry into the flaring torchlight that
he was in favor of executing in good faith eveaery
The Titans111
clause and provision of the Constitution; in favor of
protecting every right it promised; and in favor of
punishing every man who took up arms against it:
"I would hang every such man higher than Haman!"
He thought of pale, courtly Jefferson Davis.
Born in Kentucky, as Lincoln had been-and with
only a few miles separating the two cabins;
another touch of irony. Year after year Davis had
reiterated one theme. Not out of cowardice-no man
would dare attribute cowardice to the colonel of the
Mississippi Rifles who had fought and bled at
Buena Vista-but out of the hope of conciliation. Over
and over, in endless variation, Davis had sounded the
central plea of the Southern moderates:
"All we ask is to be let alone."
But it had not been enough for the Northern radicals
comnor, obviously, for the secessionist fire-eaters.
On the night Davis had resigned from the
Senate, they said he had prayed on his knees:
"May God have us in His holy keeping, and grant
that before it is too late peaceful councils will
prevail." To add one more irony, the fire-eaters
had been rejected by the delegates gathered in
Montgomery to form a new government; it was the
moderate who had been chosen for the presidency.
Lincoln and Lee. Douglas and Davis. The names
rang in Jephtha's mind with a sonorous, bell-like
quality. Good men-giants in the affairs of the nation.
But powerless, finally, to prevent a war from coming.
The President had perhaps put it best, he thought.
The very concept of popular government was at stake.
Would the Constitution stand the test? Slavery was the
cause of the confrontation. But the Union itself-its
fall or its preservation-was the issue that had
finally brought the storm.
All the way to the approach to the Long Bridge,
he kept remembering the eyes of Robert Lee.
With their mingled strength and sadness, they seemed to sum
up the best and worst of America in this tortured
hour.
112Colonel Lee
Grim as it was, what had to be done would be done.
There was no longer any way for men of
conscience to find a clear road out of the storm; nor
any place for them to hide from its onslaught.
Vll
Jephtha's palms began to perspire as he neared
the bridge. He followed the road around the low
hill and caught sight of the cherry grove. He
breathed out, long and loud.
A man was posted there, all right. Scrutinizing
southbound traffic. But it wasn't Samuel
Dorn.
The man was feeding something to his tethered horse as
Jephtha passed. He gave Jephtha a glance
before turning his attention to a farmer's wagon rumbling
off the bridge. The wagon had a family name-
Whitefield-painted in crude letters on the side.
Jephtha watched the Pinkerton operative jot the
name down on a small pad.
Once across the bridge, he managed to throw off some
of his depression. He was heartened by the papers in his
pocket. He'd pulled off a coup. He looked
forward to informing Theo Payne by telegraph. He
wanted to tell Molly, too, when he saw her at
the boarding house later in the day.
He returned the mare to the stable and went directly
to the noisy office of the Evening Star,
pausing outside to read the latest bulletin chalked
on the board:
Governors of 16 states have pledged troops in
response to the President's proclamation.
Well, at least that promised some improvement in
Washington's military situation. He hoped the
troops
The Titans113
would arrive before hotheads on the other side decided
to launch an attack. If such an attack came
too soon the Federal capital could easily
fall.
He entered the busy newsroom, striding down the
aisle.
"Afternoon, Mr. Kent."
He jerked his head up, almost colliding with Jim, the
Star's sweep boy. Jim was a Negro. Some
affliction at birth had left him mentally slow, but
his generally sunny nature helped compensate. He
was busy with his broom, cleaning up discarded pieces
of copy and proof.
"Jim, how are you?"
"Very fine, thanks."
"And staying far away from my desk, I hope."
He didn't say it unkindly. But the
youngster was a thorn to the reporters on Mr.
Wallach's staff. Parental training had
evidently created an almost maniacal devotion
to cleanliness; Jim's broom often swept away
papers that spilled off the chronically littered
desks of the reporters. They complained frequently
and bitterly. Editor Wallach lectured Jim
once or twice a week, though less
profanely, because of the boy's slowness of mind and his
eagerness to do well at the only work for which he was
suited. None of the complaints or lectures did
any good. Jim's broom kept flying day after day;
copy was frequently lost in the refuse bins in the
alley.
"B-b-but-was When he was upset, the boy
developed a stammer. "I'm s-supposed
to sweep all the aisles-was
"But if you'd only do it with a little less enthusiasm,
all of us would-was
Tears had started in the black boy's eyes.
Quickly, Jephtha squeezed his shoulder:
"Here-I'm sorry. Don't feel bad-was
"I-I'm s-s-supposed to k-keep the
p-place tt-tidy-was
"I know," Jephtha nodded. "I keep
forgetting. I'm just not as smart as you are, Jim."
He twisted his mouth into a rueful smile to hide his
shame over his thoughtless
114Colonel Lee
remarks. Jephtha's exaggerated grimace made
Jim laugh. Jephtha ignored scowls from a
couple of the reporters and said:
"You do a fine job, too. Fine."
In a moment Jim was calm again. He wiped his
eyes and smiled at the older man in a shy way.
Jephtha stepped over the handle of the broom as Jim
went back to work, whistling.
When Jephtha reached his desk, a quick survey showed
him nothing important was missing. On the center of the
desk lay another wrathful telegram from Payne.
He sat down, lit a cigar and proceeded to draft
a reply. He relished this particular bit of
writing:
OBTAINED EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WJTH
COLONEL R. E. LEE. CANNOT PUBLISH
SAME UNTIL LEE REACHES DECISION
ON HIS FUTURE. REPEAT. WILL NOT
FILE COPY UNTIL LEE DECLARES
HIMSELF.
That last was added to head off Payne's
insistence that he telegraph his copy at once. The
editor was a newsman first, and trustworthy
second. If Payne had the interview in his hands,
he'd print it and let Jephtha worry about the
consequences of a broken promise.
He signed the message J. KENT, then set the
sheet aside. For the next hour and a half, he
transcribed his notes into a story. He locked the
finished copy in a lower drawer of the desk and stubbed
out his third cigar, ready to leave for the telegraph
office. Only then did he recall the information
passed along by the sketch artist from Harper's
Weekly. Something about a potentially violent
demonstration-Union or secesh-at the
Canterbury variety hall tomorrow night.
He decided he'd go. If something did happen he
could write a background story on the divided
feelings in the capital. Perhaps that would mollify
Payne while
The Titans115
he waited for the Lee piece. The presence of
Pinkerton detectives in the city also merited some
investigation.
From a desk-near the street entrance, Jephtha
picked up a still-damp copy of the day's
edition. He turned to the theatrical notices.
Finally he found the advertisement:
-Entirely New Programme Commencing Tomorrow
Evening-
A name among the listed performers caught his eye.
He stared at the words, his hand trembling. It was
impossible!
No, not at all. Washington was considered just as much
a part of the Southern theatrical circuit as
Savannah or New Orleans.
With a feeling of dread, Jephtha read the lines again.
SPEC I A L A TTRA CT1ON!
Dramatic Presentations in Prose and Poesy
by the Noted Tragedian MR. EDWARD LAMONT
Jephtha let the paper fall to the desk. He
pushed his way through the crowd clustered around the outside
board. The past had rushed in upon him with unexpected
suddenness. He was totally unprepared-
Questions hammered at his mind. If Lamont was in the
city had he brought his wife and stepsons with him? And
if so, could Jephtha find courage to face them?
To face Fan-his
The thought of her started his heart beating faster and brought
a dry feeling to his mouth. He fought his emotions.
Unsuccessfully. His hand shook again,
harder this time-
The hate in him was beyond control.
CHAPTER I'll
Molly's Hope
THE LAST LOAVES came fragrant from the oven
at one o'clock Tuesday morning. Mrs. Molly
Emerson set them out in a row to cool, banked the
coals in the iron stove and extinguished the gas
jets. She'd been in the kitchen almost an hour,
finishing up the bread to be served to her boarders at
breakfast. She was tired. It showed in her slow step
as she walked toward the rectangle of light at the
kitchen entrance.
She happened to glance down. Near the edge of the
rectangle cast by the gaslight in the front hall,
she saw a tangle of twine. Dropped and forgotten
when the butcher's boy delivered in the afternoon.
She picked up the twine, carefully unsnarled it,
looped it around three fingers of her left hand and
placed the finished coil in a drawer already full of
bits of string and twine similarly coiled.
Molly's early life had been spent in poverty.
Her mother had died bearing her. Her father had been a
self-taught and none too successful doctor of
horses, cattle and swine. When he
passed away, he'd left her no money, just two
beliefs. That life was invaluable. And that the world's
paramount sin was waste-whether of a nail, or the
humblest God-given ability.
She shut the string drawer and left the kitchen, weary
but wide awake. She knew her weariness came
less from the day's work than from worrying about
Jephtha.
He'd been in a strange mood throughout the evening.

The Titans117
True, he was a man of moods; she'd lived with
him long enough to know that. But tonight, she felt, he'd been
holding something back. Denying her access to what was
really in his mind.
In the front hall Molly trimmed the gas to its
dimmest level. She made certain the street
door was locked. After dark Washington City was
plagued with roaming thieves, both whites and free
blacks. All her boarders had their own keys, and
she kept a hand gun in the bureau near her bed.
As she started up the stairs to her suite of rooms
at the second floor front, she pondered the
problem of what to do about Jephtha. She didn't
even know how to begin probing for the cause of the
tension that had kept his conversation guarded and his glance
evasive since his return home at nine. For a
moment, he hoped he'd fallen asleep.
By morning, his mood might pass-
Suddenly, she felt she was being a coward for wishing
him asleep. Obviously something was troubling him.
And she cared for him, despite his complex, occasionally
infuriating personality.
By turns idealistic, guilt-ridden and
bad-tempered, Jephtha Kent was still a welcome
companion. Even jolly on occasion. He was a
decent man. And he warmed her bed when the fall
winds began to riffle the Potomac- a commonplace
pleasure, but one that she'd missed deeply until
he came into her life.
Now and then Molly felt embarrassed by her
feelings for Jephtha. At thirty-eight she was
too old for the sort of vaporish thrills younger
women experienced in the name of love. Yet
Jephtha could make her feel sentimental; even
romantic-
Perhaps it was compensation. Her husband, ten years her
senior and four years dead, had been a proper,
joyless man. Waldo Preston Emerson, a
Hoosier as she was, had been an
excellent attorney. But he had never been a
satisfactory lover, or even a halfway
proficient
118Molly's Hope
one. She found it funny that a former Methodist
minister was far more ardent; sometimes more than a match for
her own lusty appetites.
The sexual liaison with Jephtha was gratifying
after her months of widowhood. At the same time it
was only one part of a total relationship that caused
Molly to think now, Yes, something's definitely
gone wrong. Something so bad, he won't tell me
about it-
Mr. Emerson's law practice had involved him
in the politics of the Democracy. After Pierce's
election, he'd been offered a patronage job in
Washington. When Emerson succumbed to a
paralytic seizure in the Patent Office one
hot summer afternoon, and died before dawn the next day,
Molly had been faced with a choice. Return
to raw, provincial Indianapolis or stay in the
capital and survive as best she could. She had no
family and few friends out in the Northwest. She
decided to stay.
Fortunately Emerson had been frugal.
He'd put savings away every year. With that money
she'd been able to meet the mortgage payments on the
two-story house located on G Street, north
of Pennsylvania Avenue and several blocks west
of the Patent Office, in what was considered
Washington's one truly respectable section.
She'd partitioned four of the second-floor rooms
into eight smaller ones, thus adding one more boarding
house to the dozens that provided cheap, clean housing
for the clerks and minor officials-between fifteen
hundred and two thousand of them-who kept the Federal
government functioning smoothly.
That is, they had kept the government functioning
smoothly until the news from Fort Sumter. That very
evening at the supper table, Mr. Swampscott who
clerked at the Treasury had declared with certainty and
panic in his voice that an army of rabid, raping
Virginians would be marching on Washington by week's
end.
Could that be what was upsetting Jephtha? she won
The Titans119
dered as she hitched up the hem of her faded brown
night robe. Fear?
She doubted it. He'd told her most everything about
his past. However complex and unfathomable he
could sometimes be, he was no coward.
His behavior tonight was even more puzzling in view of his
accomplishments during the day. He'd scored a march
on his fellow reporters. He'd gotten an
interview with Colonel Lee at Arlington.
Instead of taking supper when he returned, he'd
gone upstairs to work on the story, polishing it so it
would be ready to submit when Lee made his position
known.
His accomplishment should have put him in ebullient
spirits. Instead, when he'd come to her rooms around ten
o'clock for a whiskey, he'd been in a strange mood.
Not sharp with her. Remote; uncommunicative-
7 know he's hurting. I've got to find out why.
She turned at the head of the stairs, walking
softly. Behind a door on her right, she heard Mr.
Swampscott floundering in a nightmare. Somewhere out
in the city's dangerous dark, a pistol discharged.
Nervously, she approached the door of her parlor,
which had an adjoining bedroom. Ever since Jephtha
had moved into the boarding house and their initial friendship
had developed into something more intimate comakin to a
marriage-he'd insisted on maintaining the fiction of
separate quarters. He still paid for his room just as the
others did. He worked in his room but
slept with her. All the boarders knew. Some, like
Mr. Swampscott, a pious Episcopalian,
disapproved. Molly didn't care.
She hesitated outside the door. She was a
chunky woman, five feet six. But there was no
fat on her. The arduous work of running the boarding
house kept her solid and in good health.
Her face had an uncultivated prettiness
enhanced by large brown eyes and brunette hair
faintly streaked with
120Molly's Hope
gray. She had always been self-conscious about the
fullness of her breasts; they were too large for a
woman of her proportions. It was one of her great
regrets that she'd never suckled a child, although she and
Emerson had tried to conceive one-he, she always felt,
performing a moral duty instead of: taking pleasure
in the act.
She didn't like her smile, either. It revealed too
much. Because her mouth was wide, her teeth seemed
to dominate her face. Though sound, they were slightly
irregular. Her figure and her teeth made her
feel unattractive. But Jephtha claimed he
admired her appearance. She was no painted belle,
he said. She had the look of a real
woman.
Finally, overcoming her apprehension, she drew a
deep breath and slipped inside the parlor. She
closed the door with care, in case he was sleeping-
He wasn't. She smelled the smoke of one of his
strong cigars.
The bedroom door was ajar. She crossed the
lightless parlor, pushed the door and looked in on
almost total darkness. A small orange spot
pulsed brilliantly, then faded.
She felt awkward as she said:
"You're still up."
He didn't answer.
She followed the familiar path around the washstand to the
bed. She dropped her robe, stepped out of her
slippers, smoothed her cotton nightdress and
lay down beside him. The bed gave a faint creak.
The cigar burned brightly again; dimmed. She turned
on her right side so her breasts pressed his bare
left arm. Jephtha always slept without clothes.
Still no word from him. Another moment passed. When she
spoke, her voice was soft but firm:
"Jephtha, you'd better tell me. Else neither of
us will get any sleep."
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n
For a long moment, there was silence.
"Tell you what?"
"Jephtha Kent, you've shared this bed long enough for me
to know when something's bothering you-was
"Don't badger me just because you're tired,
Molly."
She sighed. "Sometimes you can be damned exasperating,
do you know that?"
No answer.
She sat up, so physically weary her arms ached
when she clasped them around her knees.
"I'd stay awake till next Christmas to help
you get rid of that ill-tempered look you had all
evening."
Silence.
Determined, she put her bare feet on the carpet
and walked through the dark to light the gas. The flame
hissed in the etched bowl of cobalt glass, filling
the plain but comfortable bedroom with a watery, sea-blue
light. She turned back, about to speak. Jephtha
was sitting up, the sheet tucked up around his waist.
He reached for a cracked dish he kept on the
bedside table for his cigars. His hand shook.
He didn't look at her. His pale
eyes seemed to stare at nothing. Lines furrowed his
forehead.
Alarmed, Molly waited. She'd entertained a
fleeting thought that he might need a kiss; the warmth
of arms around his neck; perhaps even
lovemaking-affection. In an instant she realized
she was wrong.
Jephtha knocked ash into the dish, at the same time
spilling some onto the table, which showed dark spots-
burns-left by other cigars.
He clamped the cigar between his teeth and kept staring
at her; through her. She noticed the glisten of
122Molly's Hope
sweat on his shoulders; his forehead; his hairless chest-
God above! she thought. He's afraid. He's
terrified.
"Jephtha, what on earth's the matter? Is it
all the turmoil in town? I know people are saying
we'll be invaded. Is that what's upsetting you?"
She still didn't believe it.
"No, it has nothing to do with the war-was He puffed on
the cigar. "Well, yes it does. In a way."
"What do you mean?"
The words seemed to tear out of him: "It has to do with
my boys."
"You think they'll be fighting for the other side?"
"I don't know." Another puff. "I have to find
out."
Again her instinct told her to keep quiet. Give
him time. He'll tell you. Then you can help.
"Molly, you remember what I said about picking up
a tip in Willard's bar?"
"About some sort of demonstration at the Canterbury
tomorrow night? Yes."
Jephtha's long black hair shone in the
gaslight. "The Star carried a list of the artists on
the bill. One-one of them's Edward Lamont."
"Lamont! You mean your wife's husband is here
in-?"
"I wish to hell you'd stop calling her my wife!"
He jammed the stub of the cigar into the dish and stood
up. Naked, he walked to the far side of the room,
raking a hand through his hair.
"I'm sorry," she said, "That's a ridiculous
mistake. I make it too often."
Jephtha turned. Hard and lean as he was-and with his
nakedness revealing him to be a well-endowed man-there
was still a helpless, childlike quality about him just
now. When he spoke again, his voice was faint:
"If Lamont's in Washington, I
expect Fan might be with him." He stalked back
to the bedside, rummaged
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in a drawer for another cigar, struck a
sulphurous- smelling match on the side of the table.
The match left a mark. Molly frowned but said
nothing.
He lit the cigar, blew the match out from the corner
of his mouth, dropped it-missing the dish by half an
inch-and sat down on the bed.
"So that's what it is-was
He nodded, his head in a cloud of smoke. "The
whole damn thing's thrown me into such a state-well,
I can hardly describe it."
"There's no need, Jephtha-was
This was the moment for going-to him. Once around the end
of the bed, she laid a cool palm on his warm
shoulder. How he trembled!
"No need," she repeated. "I watched the way you
fidgeted and stared into space after you came home."
He jerked the cigar from his mouth and began talking
rapidly, as if he had to:
"At first I thought it was the wildest kind of
coincidence. I mean Lamont turning up here just
when there's so much trouble. Then I realized
Washington is a theater town, and I know Lamont
tours the major cities. Still, there's one thing I
can't fathom. Why the devil would he appear in a
cheap variety hall? Granted he's no Joe
Jefferson. No Forrest-no Edwin Booth. But
he'd be more likely to play the old Washington.
Secondary parts in Lear, or King John-I just
don't understand why a variety hall. Doing
recitations!"
"Recitations?"
"That's what the paper said. "Dramatic
presentations in prose and poesy." Jephtha
tainted the words with contempt. A moment later he
went on:
"All evening I've been trying to figure out an
explanation."
Molly sat down beside him. She rested a hand on his
bare leg. Just a touch; gentle; reassuring.
"Have you?"
124Molly's Hope
"Possibly." It had a doubtful sound. "The
town's full up with secesh sympathizers.
Lamont's certainly one. Maybe he comwanted
to be booked into the Canterbury at this particular
time-was Another puff of the cigar. Molly
hated the greenish weeds. But she loved Jephtha enough
never to speak against the cigars except in a teasing
way. "combecause he's involved in that demonstration."
"But you don't know whether the demonstration's for or
against the government."
"I don't."
"Perhaps it won't take place. Or be of any
consequence if it does."
"That's true. It's easy to get carried away with
speculation. After I left the Star, I went back
to Willard's. I've never heard so much talk of
plots in all my life. Everybody in the bar was
babbling about Southern schemes to cut off the city.
Tear down the telegraph lines to the north.
Destroy the railroad tracks from Baltimore.
I even heard one man swear some members of the
local militia-members with Southern leanings-are
planning to blow up the Capitol. On the other hand,
just because people are hysterical doesn't rule out my first
idea. Lamont could be here to cause trouble."
Feeling she was close to the reason for his torment, she
asked quietly, "So you're going to the Canterbury
to see for yourself?"
He nodded, puffing out smoke. It made her cough.
"Actually, Lamont's only a side
issue. The instant I read his name in the paper, I
knew I had to find out whether he brought Fan
along. Fan and the boys-was
He jumped up, started to pace again. "It's been
how many years-five?-since she stopped answering the
letters I sent to Lexington-was The cigar dangling from
his right hand, he faced her. "I've got to see her
if I can, Molly. I've got to find out about the
boys, but-was He swallowed. "comthe truth is-was He
averted hisallyace. "I'm scared to do it."
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There was a tension in the room, heightened by the ghostly
blue gas light. She thought she knew the answer
to her next question:
"Why?"
"Because everything I studied after my conversion in
Oregon-everything I preached until the bishop
took me out of the pulpit-everything I believed for
years- it's all denied by what Fan's done to me!"
His fingers constricted around the cigar, almost breaking it
in half. His face had drained of color.
"I despise her, Molly. I despise her more
than I've ever despised any human being on this
earth."
Molly's nod was slow and sorrowful.
"You've never said it aloud. But from the way you've
talked about the letters, I guessed a long time ago
that's how you felt."
"I don't care what she believes about the
nigras, or Mr. Gorilla Lincoln, or that
glorious bullshit about states" rights that started this
whole business-I don't give a damn about any
of it. Let her swallow every bit if she wants!
Let her chase after some flash actor! Let her
drag from one sleazy theater to another-but by God she
has no right to deny me word about my sons. That's
exactly what she's done. So if she's here I'm
going to see her. Even though-was
He stopped. Lifted the bent cigar. Stared at it
as if it could somehow release him from his fury. Then
he put it in the dish where it continued to fume and foul
the bedroom's blue-lit air.
"Even though I'm frightened to death of what I might
do."
"To Fan?"
"Yes. I-I don't know whether I can hold my
temper. An hour ago, I made up my mind I
should stay away. Not risk even one minute in her
presence-was He grimaced. "That resolution
didn't last long."
"I'm not surprised. I know how much you worry
126Molly's Hope
about your boys. Sometimes you call their names in the
middle of the night-was
"Molly, I haven't seen them in almost ten
years!"
"I understand."
"I don't care if they speak to me. I don't
care if they despise me-I've just got to know
whether they're all right!"
Suddenly the little strength remaining in him drained
away. He flung himself down on one end of the bed,
hands jammed against his eyes. Molly slipped one
arm around his shoulder while the man vanished and the child
wept:
"Got to-and-Fan's the only one who can tell
me-that-that's why I'm frightened. Frightened down to the
pit of my soul I'm frightened that if she won't
tell me, I'll-was
"Do what?" Molly whispered.
"Hit her. Throttle her-God Himself only
knows!" He fisted a hand; struck his knee. "I
hate the bitch!"
With the hand that had left-a white mark on his knee,
he reached across for her hand curled on his
left shoulder; closed his fingers over hers:
"I'm ashamed of myself."
"Jephtha, no-was
"I am. It isn't fitting for a man to carry on like
this."
"Hush! The only way you'll lick the fear is
to face it."
"I'm not sure I can lick it, Molly. I
really don't know."
They sat together for five minutes, silently,
Jephtha peering at the worn carpet, his naked
body cold and free of sweat all at once.
Molly pressed against his right side, her arm still over
his back. Jephtha held her hand at his left
shoulder. His tears stopped, but not the tremors in his
fingers.
Conscious of how carefully she must pose the only
answer that came to mind, Molly finally said:
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"Well, I agree you'll probably end up going
to see her if she's here with Lamont. You'll have
to face it like a battle, Jephtha. A battle you
have to win."
"I'm not sure I can!"
"I know. But you have to try. For your own
peace of mind. About the boys. And about yourself. You'll
need help. Something to-to make you a little more
forgiving of your wife-of Fan."
Gently, she separated her fingers from his. She
left him huddled on the bed while she donned her
robe.
"I don't suppose you'll sleep much tonight," she
said. "Maybe that's good. You can prepare yourself for
seeing her. I'll take the couch in your room-was
He glanced up, puzzled. "I want you to stay
here," she said, "and try going back to the past."
"What?"
"The past. To see whether anything there can give you the
strength you'll need to face her. To control the rage
I know you feel. I don't blame you for the rage,
Jephtha. But if you let it run wild, things will be
worse than ever. You wait here-was
Despite her anxiety, she forced a smile.
"And put on your nightshirt so you don't catch
cold."
When she returned in a little over two minutes,
Jephtha had donned the long flannel garment. She
was carrying a small book with a red pebbled cover.
"Where did you get that?" he demanded.
"In your room, where else? I think it's
what you need. I know you haven't read it much during
the past year. But you should read it tonight. I've come
to know you fairly well, Jephtha. It sometimes
happens when a man shares a woman's bed," she
added with a little smile. "You're not the same person you
were when you
128Molly's Hope
first walked in here hunting a place to stay. But no
one ever changes completely. I know there's as much
goodness in you as there is hatred. In Fan, too-no,
you listen to rne. There is! You saw it in her once.
You married her."
"I was wrong about her. I don't believe for one
damn minute she's anything but a vicious,
vindictive-was
"Hush," Molly said. "You've got to stop thinking
of her that way. Let this help you-was
She laid the Testament in his right palm and cupped
her hand to close his fingers around it.
He gazed at the book, forlorn:
"I don't believe what's in here any more."
"Underneath everything, I think you do. Or you want
to. I know the kind of man you really are."
"Then you know me better than I know myself these
days."
"I think so." She patted the book. "I'm not the
most religious person in the world. But I remember
from the years I went to church as a little girl-there are
a great many words in this book about the virtue of
forgive-
ness."
his
Almost inaudibly, Jephtha said, "Yes, there are.
"Read them. Let them help you look for the goodness
instead of the bad. In yourself and in Fan. Pray if you
can. That's the only way you'll be able to go see her
without hurting-well, you understand."
She bent down and kissed his forehead.
He raised his head. A curious curl turned his
mouth up at the corners. He said softly:
"You do have a passion for saving things. String. Paper.
People who've outlived their usefulness-was
"Jephtha, I refuse to listen to that sort of
talk. You know how I despise it when you pity
yourself."
After a moment, he sighed. "Yes, I do." His
eyes grew bleak. "But I've never amounted
to anything since I left the tinerancy. That's not
self-pity. It's a fact."
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"Ridiculous. Writing for the paper-informing people comx's
a worthwhile occupation. You've always told me the
Kents considered publishing more than a means to make
a profit. They felt it was a way to make a
contribution."
"True." But he was unconvinced.
Because I've turned so far from God-
No.
Because He's turned so far from me.
"I'm certain of one thing, Jephtha. If you give
in to your worst feelings about Fan, you will be lost.
You'll detest yourself-waste yourself in regrets for the
rest of your life."
He thought a moment, then stood up. With the Testament
in one hand, he put the other on her waist:
"Forgive me. Most of the time you're absolutely
right."
She tried to tease him: "Only most of the time?"
He looked at her soberly. "I appreciate
what you're trying to do, Molly."
"You're a good man. I care about you."
"And you're a Christian woman."
She made a face. "Regular churchgoers would
disagree."
"Sitting in a pew doesn't make you a
Christian," Jephtha said. "For that matter, neither
does belonging to a Christian church. You know my mother
was a Shoshoni. Her understanding of the Bible was
rudimentary. But the parts she understood, she understood
completely. If anyone ever struggled to follow
Christ's example, she did. You can deny it all
you want, but you're the same sort of woman.
It-it's one of the reasons I love you."
"Well-was With a sudden rush of breath, she shook her
head. Wiped at her eyes. "comt's very kind of you,
sir, considering I'm an aging widow who's never
been able to bear any man a child, or to be content
living the
130Molly's Hope
way respectable women are supposed to live.
That's- very kind-was
"Don't joke." "I'm
not."
He stroked her hair. "I wouldn't have said it if
I'd thought it would make you unhappy."
"Unhappy? Oh, no-was Her eyes shone. She
buried her cheek on his shoulder. "No. You've
never said it before, that's all. Not once-was
"I guess you're right."
"Say it again."
"I love you."
She kissed him, quickly. Ashamed of her tears, she
tried to quell them. By some miraculous accident of
intuition, she'd given him a chance to wrestle down the
demons the presence of Lamont had brought back
to life. If God did control any of the events in
a world that seemed close to shaking itself apart, He had
chosen to control one tonight. He had looked into this shabby
room; guided her thinking and lent her the words she
needed. She was unbelievably happy.
She drew away. "You read now. You've got
to find out about your boys-and you've got to do it without
hurting the woman who bore them, much as you think
she's wronged you. You've got to, Jephtha."
He stood a little straighten "All right. I'll
try."
With a last dab at her eyes, she kissed his mouth a
second time, retrieved her slippers and started for the
door. In his room, she wept out of a curious
mixture of relief and joy.
She didn't sleep well that night. She was
uncomfortable on the old leather couch standing amid the
clutter of his books and clothing in the small room
filled with the stale smell of cigars. Three times
she stole up the hall and took a
cautious step into her parlor. Each time, she saw
a sliver of gaslight beneath the closed door of the
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bedroom. After the third visit, she managed
to doze a while.
Exhausted, she rose at six. She went down
to meet Bertha, the free black woman who helped
her prepare meals and maintain the boarding house.
She and Bertha began serving at seven. Jephtha
didn't come down with the others. About seven-thirty,
he appeared in the hall, dressed and freshly
shaved.
"I'm late," he called. "Ill be skipping
breakfast."
"Mrs. Emerson, where's the hot coffee?" Mr.
Swampscott complained above the chatter of the men at
the table. His righteous eye registered his disapproval
of her appearance; no Christian woman served
breakfast in robe and slippers.
"Bertha will have it here in a minute," Molly said,
rushing to Jephtha. They walked toward the front
door, out of the view of the boarders. He touched her
arm.
"Thank you for last night. I did read. In a
different way than I've read in quite a
while."
"Are you going to see her?"
"If she's here."
"When?"
"I can't be sure. First I have to find out where
Lamont's staying."
"Will that be today?"
"I don't know. There's so much confusion in town,
I'll probably be chasing up and down the avenue just
trying to find one fact I can put into a story. And
I am going to Canterbury Hall this evening,
remember. I'll be back late."
"But if you should see her today, are-are you all right?"
"Yes." He seemed to smile faintly. Or did
she just imagine that, hoping-his
"Yes, I am," he repeated. He kissed her
cheek, opened the front door and strode out. She
watched until he vanished from sight.
132Molly's Hope
She hurried back into the dining room. Bertha was
pouring from the fresh pot of coffee. When breakfast was
over, Molly began clearing the dishes. Her mind
wasn't on the work. She kept trying to read
Jephtha's mood from their brief conversation.
He'd seemed tired; for good reason. But
his fate no longer had the tormented, fearful look of
last night And he'd walked briskly away on
G Street
She moved toward the kitchen, barely hearing the table
talk of three boarders who had lingered over their
coffee. The talk seemed nothing more than
speculative variations on an incessant
theme-war. Well, let the blasted secessionists
march across Long Bridge! The only battle she
cared about was Jephtha's-
Are you all right?
Yes, I am.
Perhaps-she dared to let hope come brimming up within
her-perhaps-he did have a chance to win his victory now.
iv
About nine-thirty, with the washing of the breakfast dishes
completed and Bertha busy dusting the downstairs,
Molly went to her rooms to put on a dress and
comb her hair. The bedroom reeked of Jephtha's
cigars. The red-covered Testament lay open on the
bedside table.
She picked up the book, scanning the two pages.
Saint Matthew's Gospel, the fifth chapter-
Closer scrutiny showed her Jephtha had
evidently been studying the Beatitudes.
The paper just beneath the seventh verse-"Blessed are the
merciful: for they shall obtain mercy"-bore a faint
horizontal indentation, more clearly discernible when she
tilted the Testament. The mark had undoubtedly been
left by his finger
The Titans133
nail. She saw a similar underscore on the
second verse following-
"Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the
children of God."
Encouraged, she replaced the Testament in its
original position. She turned slowly, surveying
the room. She could find nothing out of order in the
entire-
Wait.
A sudden dryness in her throat made it difficult
to swallow. One drawer of her bureau was open about
two inches. Cold, she crossed to it.
Living alone as she had before Jephtha arrived-and with
Washington City's heavy complement of thieves
operating almost unopposed after nightfall-she'd
felt it wise to keep a personal firearm close
by. She'd bought a four-barrel pepperbox, .22
caliber, with ivory grips. It was one of the most
popular models manufactured by the
gunmaker Christian Sharps of Philadelphia.
After a few weeks of practice in the back yard,
she'd become proficient at loading, aiming and
firing the little hideout gun. She kept it in the
drawer-
As Jephtha knew.
Unsteadily, she touched the drawer's handle.
He didn't want to tell me the truth. The
Testament did no good. No good at ail-
She pulled the drawer out-
"Oh, God." Tears welled in her eyes.
The pepperbox was gone.
CHAPTER IV
Fan's Fear
FAN LAMONT WOKE to the sound of the parlor
clock beyond the closed door. She counted the chimes.
Ten.
Pale sunlight cast the pattern of the lace
curtains onto the end of the bed. The space beside her
still felt warm. Edward was up early.
Early. She smiled at that In her childhood
someone who rose at ten would have been considered
deranged. Since her second marriage in '55,
she'd gradually accustomed herself to the peculiar hours
kept by actors. She hoped Jeremiah was
busy with his studies in the smaller bedroom on the
other side of the suite Edward had rented in a burst
of extravagance.
She yawned. Listened to the late morning sounds of the
National Hotel. Faint voices. Footsteps
on the "stairs. Outside, on the avenue,
traffic clattered.
All at once she remembered what day it was.
Tuesday. The Tuesday following Sumter's
fall. She began to breathe a little faster, recalling
the day's significance.
She was excited by what little she knew of Edward's
plan. Yet it made her apprehensive, too.
Washington City was the capital of the Yankee
government. Though it wouldn't be for long, Edward and his
strange friend Josiah Cheever said. Even Leroy
Walker, the Secretary of War for the Confederacy,
had predicted a new flag would wave beside the
Potomac by the first of May.
Edward wanted to help bring it about. He'd turned

The Titans135
down a six-week engagement with a troupe going
to Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama
to perform Macbeth. She knew it was a
sacrifice. He'd been offered the title role-a
part he'd never played before.
She continued to lie motionless, savoring the faint
warmth he'd left in the bed. Through the two doors
separating her from Jeremiah's room, she thought she
heard her son utter an exclamation of disgust.
She wished Gideon could have been here to attend the
theater tonight. He was old enough. But he'd rented a
horse on Sunday and set off for Richmond,
hoping to join a military unit that would be mobilized
the moment Virginia seceded.
She thought of Matthew. He wouldn't know for weeks,
or perhaps months, about his stepfather's high- principled
action. Two years earlier, Fan and Edward had
given up their efforts to prod Matthew into further
schooling. In his quiet way, he refused to accept
the discipline of academic work. Grudgingly, they'd
permitted him to take a mess boy's berth on one
of the cotton packets traveling out of Charleston.
Before coming up to Washington, they'd received a letter from
him. He was in New Orleans.
But Gideon would undoubtedly be back from
Richmond soon. At least she could tell him of
Edward's courageous stand. Of all her sons,
Gideon would have the. greatest appreciation for
Edward's bravery. Among the three, he believed
most strongly what she had taught them about
Jephtha: that his fanaticism was responsible for the
dissolution of the family.
She slipped her hands behind her head as she lay
thinking about her children. Jephtha had given each of them
a- markedly independent nature. The Fletcher
blood, he used to call it. Passed down from his
grandmother, who had been a Virginian of rebellious
and ultimately unstable temperament
The trait was just beginning to show in Jeremiah. In
136FaA's Fear
Gideon it manifested itself in various ways. His
fondness for loud singing. His sudden outbursts of
temper. The way he fumed and swore whenever Edward
held forth on the abuse, slander and political
manipulation the South had suffered for nearly four
decades.
And Matthew-there, too, she saw a rebellious
streak, though it took a different form.
Matthew had been hard to raise because he was her
second; mothers of Fan's acquaintance always said
second children presented special problems. They
tended to be introspective-sometimes to the point of being
wholly uncommunicative-perhaps because the
eldest child, at least at first, got the major share
of the parents" attention. Matthew fit the pattern.
He'd repeatedly refused to do the lessons Fan
had assigned to him when he traveled with the family.
And his sources of enjoyment were contradictory.
Only two things seemed to interest
him-ungentlemanly games, and a hobby whose origin
Fan was at a loss to explain. He liked
to draw.
He sketched anything that caught his interest, from a
gas fixture jutting out of a brick wall
backstage to a variety hall dancer with her foot
on a chair as she adjusted her tights. Fan had
no idea when he'd begun drawing. She'd only
seen his first crude efforts when he was eleven. She
had to admit he'd improved remarkably since
then. In fact, his most recent letter had contained two
folded charcoal studies she thought were quite good for a boy
who wouldn't be seventeen for another month.
One showed nigras handling bales on a pier. The
figures of the black men had a flowing, sinuous
quality that vividly suggested the strength and agility
required to handle the bales-which he'd drawn with sharp
angles, for contrast. He'd labeled that picture
"New Orleans Cotton." The other
one, smaller, was a portrait of the skipper of his
packet, a stern, middle-aged Charleston sailor
with full chin whiskers, fierce eyes and a
The Titans137
braided cap. The picture was called
"'Captain McGill, 1861."
Fan's father considered Matthew's oasthne
ungodly. She had a more practical concern.
She'd have been worried about his masculinity if it
hadn't been for his other passion. Often when she and
Edward were still in bed the morning after a performance,
Matthew had sneaked out of their hotel and found a
group of boys- sometimes white, sometimes black-in
the poor section of the town, and spent hours with them in
a vacant field, playing a game with a wooden
bat, a ball and opposing teams which tried to score
"runs."
Several times Matthew had tried to explain the
game, which he said was getting more and more popular. But the
explanation never made sense to Fan. He came
home from his outings sweating and happy, so Fan had a
hard time disciplining him for his day-long disappearances.
His willingness to take part in hard physical
activity comfirst the games, then the work on the
packet- offset her fear that he might be
developing in the wrong way. Still, of the three,
Mathew was the one whose future concerned her the most.
She did thank God that the independence displayed
by all the boys had become her responsibility
alone to control as best she could. Her efforts weren't
perfect, but at least she was spared Jephtha's
damaging influence. She thanked God too that she'd
chosen a second husband who directed the boys"
political thinking properly. They had developed
absolute loyalty to the South, which had been too
long at the mercy of the damned Northerners-those men
who would free the nigras and set them up as the
equals of whites.
At which time, Edward insisted, the nigras would unleash
their long-buried rage against their former masters.
Kill them in their homes. Rape their women.
138Fan's Fear
Torch their farms and plantations. Destroy their
entire way of life.
Edward stood against that ever happening. From birth,
Fan, too, had stood against it, influenced by her
father, Captain Virgil Tunworth. Though she
suspected there was considerable risk in what Edward
had decided to do, she was immensely proud of him.
Of course her father hadn't been
enthusiastic about her marrying an actor. It was still a
disreputable profession. Only Fan's insistence-and
Edward's fierce partisanship for the South-had
overcome Tunworth's objections.
The courtship had been swift and intense. She and
her father had gone to Charleston to visit family
relatives. One evening they'd attended the
Charleston Theater to see the highly acclaimed
tragedy Francesco da Rimini, written
by Boker, an Englishman who regularly turned out
successes for the Sadler's Wells Theater of
London.
Afterward, Fan and her father had. enjoyed a late-
evening supper arranged on the stage by a group of
culturally minded Charleston ladies. Fan had
met Edward at the supper. Though he'd only
played a supporting role in the play, she'd been
taken with his good looks. She was almost speechless when
she was presented to him in the unfamiliar but oddly
delightful backstage atmosphere of painted
scenery and other theatrical paraphernalia.
A mutual liking developed at once. Two
weeks after their introduction, Edward proposed.
Fan had been relieved to discover the actor wouldn't
have the slightest objection to bringing up
another man's sons as his own. When she described
the boys' father, he grew angry. No more of that
damned nonsense! He'd raise the lads as
proper Southerners. If she'd had any lingering
doubt about Edward, it disappeared when he said that
On balance the marriage had been a happy one,
al
The Titans139
though it had required a severe adjustment on
Fan's part. The glamour of the post-performance supper
and the headiness of the courtship soon vanished. For
months, Fan was ill at ease in the strange world
in which actors and actresses lived. Edward's
colleagues seemed all of a piece. They were
colorful, gregarious people. But they were also vain,
boastful, and often afflicted with an incredible sense of
self-importance she felt must hide deep
feelings of unworthiness.
They were generous and amusing; profane and amoral.
Reality for them was gaslight, not sunlight. They
bubbled with excitement while an audience gathered, and
after the fire curtain dropped, argued endlessly
to justify the smallest mistake in the performance.
They stayed in cheap hotels, strutting through every lobby
as if it were a palace foyer. They
expressed horror at the idea of ever abandoning their
profession, but they complained endlessly about traveling
from city to city in lamp-lit passenger cars with
soot-blackened cushions and unpleasant human
smells fouling the air. How many tunes had she
been roused at two or three in the morning when a
train reached the end of its trackage and all the
passengers had to stumble out of one car and onto
another, equally filthy and poorly illuminated,
because the first railroad's gauge was not the same as that
of the next? Frequently the change required a
coach ride, the gaps between some lines varying from two
miles to twenty.
Yet she was content. Edward treated the boys well.
If they felt no love for him, at least they were
respectful. And Gideon actually expressed
admiration for Edward's raffish, occupation.
Like most actors, Fan discovered, her husband was
subject to extreme swings of emotion. Periods of
exuberance alternated with other periods of
melancholy. Fortunately Edward's shifts in
mood came less, frequently than was the case with
many of his associates.
140Fan's Fear
He was, of course, continually concerned about
his appearance. He could be impulsive. And he was
fond of the grand gesture, the breathtaking effect.
He insisted they not be punctual at parties to which the
visiting troupe was invited, varying their arrival from
thirty minutes to an hour after the specified time as
the whim struck him. But the late entrance was
mandatory.
On their first anniversary, he'd presented her with
an immense floral basket-but not in privacy.
Just after buying the basket, which he couldn't afford,
he'd been struck by a thought-and instantly arranged
for the gift to be delivered to their table in a crowded
hotel dining room.
Even his appearance in Washington, while not
precisely impulsive, fit the pattern of
turning the disorder of everyday living into something
structured and spectacular; into theater.
Fan learned to accept and cope with these quirks of the
actor's personality. In only one area did she
feel herself incapable of adjusting to Edward's needs.
It was the same area in which she'd had problems during
her marriage to Jephtha. But Edward was generally
kind and tolerant about it.
She never admitted she'd married him for another
reason besides love of his looks, his
manners and his political opinions. After the
humiliating period in which Jephtha had lingered in
Lexington, then fled because- of his involvement with the
Underground Railroad, life in the little town had
become intolerable for her. All her friends
sympathized with her. But sympathy wasn't enough.
The corner of the Shenandoah in which she'd grown up had
become too full of bad memories.
Once in a while she was able to confess to herself that she
was in part responsible for those memories. Her
tongue had sometimes been too vicious. Anger had
sometimes driven her beyond reason-as, for example,
during the visit of the objectionable Mrs. Amanda
Kent.
The Titans141
Afterward, Fan had accused Jephtha of signing away
the boys' birthright by permitting Mrs. Kent-or
Mrs. de la Gura as she'd called herself then-to
administer the California gold holdings that had been
owned by Jephtha's dead father. Tension in the
household had made it easy to give in to such
excesses.
Edward had rescued her from the failure Lexington
had come to represent. He offered escape from the
despair that followed her filing for
divorce. Despite the peculiarities of his
profession, she had never regretted saying yes
to his proposal-
A murmuring voice caught her attention. It
came from the small dressing chamber adjoining the
bedroom. She heard the scrape of his razor as he
spoke. She made out the words. Julius Caesar
again.
Edward had toured in the play during the second year
of their marriage. Played Brutus to the Marc
Antony of Junius Brutus Booth,
Junior, one of the three sons of the transplanted
English tragedian Junius Booth, Senior.
Of late, Edward seldom quoted any other
play. She listened to him:
was "comthen, countrymen, what need we any spur, but
our own cause, to prick us to redress? What other
bond than secret Romans, that have spoke the word,
and will not palter-?"'"
She smiled. He was, for the moment, Brutus again.
Slowly, she sat up in bed. The coverlet fell
away from the bodice of her nightdress. She
stretched; luxuriated in another long yawn-
Her fair hair was a loose tangle around her
shoulders. Her lips were full, her eyes
gray-green and slightly slanted. She was a
slender woman, thirty-five, with a body kept
supple by gallops along bridle paths in the
towns they visited. From her earliest years, one of
her greatest pleasures had been riding one of the
half-dozen blooded horses her father kept on the
farm near Lexington.
142Fan's Fear
Edward's razor rattled, laid aside on the
marble stand. She heard a splashing of water. He was
humming now. He had a passable singing voice, though
it was not nearly so good as Gideon's baritone.
She recognized the melody. "Old Folks at
Home," the sentimental ballad by Mr. Foster,
who knew next to nothing about the South. Born in
Pennsylvania, for a time he had been a
bookkeeper in Cincinnati. But his Negro
minstrel songs extolling plantation life- songs
licensed during the fifties for exclusive performance
by E. P. Christy's troupe-were relished
by Southerners. She recalled a recent newspaper
item saying Foster had fallen on hard times and was
living in a rooming house on New York's
Bowery-
The humming stopped. In a moment, Edward
appeared, wearing his robe of dark green velvet.
He'd applied fresh blacking to his temples,
she noticed.
Edward Lamont was eleven years Fan's senior.
Tall and solid, he moved with the strength and swagger
of a man half his age. His eyes might have been
too close together for perfect handsomeness. But he was still
physically imposing, with curly dark brown hair
showing no trace of gray. He blacked his mustache
as well.
"Good morning, Edward," she said, getting out of bed.
"Good morning, my dear!" His smile was broad, his
face animated by excitement
He crossed to her. Slipped his arms around her
waist. Kissed her throat even though he knew she
wasn't fond of physical expressions of
passion. Dismayed, she felt the hardness of him
thrusting at her lower body.
Any important occasion-signing for a new part; an
opening night-stimulated him.
His mourn explored the contours of her neck.
"Sleep weUs?"
"Splendidly. But by rights, I should have had
nightmares."
"In heaven's name why?"
She pulled away. "Worrying about tonight."
"Nonsense!"
"But you haven't told me exactly what you're
going to do."
"Because I want to surprise you afterward!"
She made a face. "I suooose that's the actor
in you. Wringing your audience with suspense. But I'm
your wife, not a stranger sitting in a box!"
He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. "In
this case, you're both. Believe me, Fan-was His
right hand caressed the small of her back, moved
downward to her buttocks. She turned cold.
"comI'm not planning anything criminal. I'm only
going to exercise my right of free speech as an
American. A right that goddamned baboon in the
White House hasn't yet abrogated-though I'm
sure he'd like to! It'll be a marvelous evening,
darling. Marvelous!"
The word had a sonorous sound. Edward's voice,
deep and mellow, was his greatest asset. During
years of apprenticeship in the theater, he'd
acquired perfect English diction, losing all
trace of a regional accent
Edward Lamont had been born of middling-
prosperous merchant people in Alabama.
He'd angered and humiliated his Baptist parents
when he'd run away from boarding school to join a
traveling troupe. Both parents were dead now. But in
her last hours, his mother had written a letter admitting
she wasn't altogether ashamed that her son had achieved
some minor prominence in his profession, disreputable as
it was.
Edward's family was opposed to abolitionism-and with
good reason. His aunt on his father's side-a woman
beloved by dozens of Lamont relatives-had been
married to a cotton planter who treated his slaves
in a humane way. He refused to let his
overseers and drivers use beatings as punishment; he
never sold off a
The Titans143
144Fan's Fear
buck, a wench or a baby if it would break up a
family. But in the long run, his kindness had been
misguided.
One November morning, Edward's aunt had asked
her eighteen-year-old household boy to go outside
for stove wood-a daily request which never produced
any response but obedience. For no clear reason,
that morning the slave screamed a refusal.
His mistress ordered him again. Again he
screamed, striking at her with his fists. When she
called for help, the boy ran outside, snatched
up the firewood ax, lunged back into the kitchen and
drove the ax blade into the woman's skull.
Her husband, pulling up his galluses with one hand
while he cocked a revolver with the other, arrived in
the kitchen a few seconds later. He thrust by the
shrieking, weeping trio of household girls who
had watched the killing. The planter shot and killed
the murderer with one ball.
Afterward, he refused to bury the dead boy. The
planter-quite rightly, Edward maintained-had. the boy's
body dragged to a clump of woods, there to lie in the
frosty weather until the animals and carrion
birds devoured it.
From that time on, Edward said, the Laments worshipped
at the altar of an impassioned hatred for the nigger who
had taken his aunt's life. The hatred soon
expanded to include any whites who believed such
monsters should be allowed freedom-
Edward put his lips against Fan's ear. She tried
not to shudder at the feel of the tip of his tongue. He
was harder, too; larger. When she started to pull
back a second time, he held her fastccv
"The fact is, darting, things couldn't be
better. As soon as Virginia secedes, there'll
be ten thousand from that state marching on this city. Perhaps
men from Maryland, too. Despite Governor
Hicks and his idiotic loyalty to the Union,
Marylanders are strong for the
f
The Titans145
cause. Young Johnny Booth-why, he's a
hotter sympathizer than old Yancey himself. All
I'm going to do is what must be done. Show
Virginia and Maryland there are a great many people in
Washington who want an invasion-and damned quick!"
As he spoke, he continued caressing her. He
stroked her cheek, then her breast. His fingertips
closed on her nipple through her nightdress. He
didn't hurt her. But he wouldn't be denied.
She attempted another diversion: "If what you're
doing isn't illegal, why can't I go to the theater
to watch?"
"My dear, we've already discussed that. Canterbury
Hall's a vulgar sort of place. Unescorted
ladies don't attend-was
"comexcept at the matinees, when the performers omit
the suggestive songs and stories." She sighed. "I
think you're just hiding the fact that it could be
dangerous." "Not a bit! We'll have the house
packed with our crowd. Josiah promised. You
haven't forgotten he's coming here this morning-?"
"Yes, I did forget" Remembering obviously
disgusted her.
"Around eleven or so." He kissed her flesh just
above the bodice. "We have ample time."
"Jeremiah-was she began. "Will attend to his
studies without you, my dear." One arm went around her
back. He bent, slipping the other behind her legs.
With hardly any effort, he lifted her onto the
bed.
He flung off his dressing gown and stood above her,
proud of his firm, trim body; proud too of his
thrusting member. The sight of it made her skin
crawl. Sex belonged in darkness.
"It's a great day, Fan. Celebrate with me."
He sat down beside her. His hand moved beneath the hem of
her gown, then up along her thigh. He touched
146Fan's Fear
her in that intimate way that knotted her belly and
filled her with disgust. Her only defense was a
mental litany she'd relied on over the years:
He's your husband.
It's his right.
And your duty to endure it-
She let him pull up the nightdress. She let
his mouth linger on her breasts; her stomach-while she
lay absolutely rigid. Many things had changed
since her marriage to Jeohtha, but not this.
Edward didn't seem to mind her lack of
response. He thrust vigorously as she closed
her eyes and pressed her palms against the sheet.
Finally, he let out a groan and withdrew. As always,
he touched her cheek:
"Thank you. I know how it displeases you."
She turned her head to the side. "I-I do wish
I could be a better wife this way-was
"Be still," he said softly. "You're a wonderful
wife. What a man needs is only part of a
marriage. We share many things more important-was His
dark eyes took on a glow that disturbed her.
As the turmoil in the nation had moved steadily toward
armed conflict, Edward's acting career had become
almost a sideline. He pursued it so they might
eat, have shelter, and care for Jeremiah. But he
spoke more and more of politics; less and less of
roles and bookings-
"Much more important," he repeated. was 'Heaven
hath infus'd us with these spirits-"" She
knew he was quoting again, but paraphrasing; changing
them to us. ""comto make us instruments of fear and
warning unto some monstrous state." his
She ran her hand across his smooth, soap-scented
cheek. "That's Casca, isn't it?"
"No, Cassius. Act one, scene three. With
thunder and lightning. We'll put on a big display
of it tonight! When they hear it down south, the boys will
come storming
The Titans147
across Long Bridge and hang that misbegotten
nigger- lover in front of his own executive
mansion!"
She studied him. "There isn't much you wouldn't do for the
cause, is there, Edward?"
"There is nothing." He kissed her cheek. "But
that's why you said yes to me so soon after we met.
Isn't it?"
"Yes," she answered; uneasily. Sometimes she
wondered whether she was as' fervent-as wholly
committed comz her husband. Sometimes she was actually
fearful about how far his hatred of the nigras, the
abolitionists and the Republicans might carry him.
She stared into his eyes. Right now was one of those
times.
While they dressed, Edward told her he wanted
to go downstairs for a bite of breakfast before his
visitor arrived. He'd seen Josiah Cheever
daily, in private, since the family's arrival
in Washington the preceding Thursday. He claimed
to have met Cheever three years ago in Savannah,
though Fan didn't recall it. Of course Edward
and his fellow actors frequented a great many
saloons that a respectable woman would never enter.
Cheever, apparently, had played some part in
persuading Edward to come to the capital at this
particular time. It was clear to Fan that he was a
ringleader of Southern sympathizers in the city.
"Do go," she said to Edward. "I'm not especially
hungry. And I must see if Jeremiah's doing the
work I assigned."
Edward stood in front of the bedroom's pier
glass, using a comb and brush to arrange his hair.
Finally, after studying the results, he gave an
approving nod. Then he blew her a kiss and
walked out through the parlor.
148Fan's Fear
She gazed at the open doorway, unable to still her
anxiety. She wished he wouldn't be so secretive
about his plan. She knew only that in lieu
of his scheduled recitations, he intended to make some
sort of speech- an appeal to Southerners to stand fast
until an invading army captured the city.
Edward's friend Cheever had promised a house
packed with sympathizers. She supposed there could
really be no great risk-
Yet Cheever wasn't a free agent in the sense
that Edward was. He still worked for the War Department, and
now that the gangling Illinois lawyer had declared the
existence of an "insurrection," Cheever was
technically a traitor. That fact served
to intensify her worry.
Standing up for principle was one thing. Associating with
men whose activities could be construed as treason was quite
another. She didn't want Edward hurt Or
arrested.
To take her mind off her fears, she dressed quickly
and looked in on Jeremiah. Elbows braced on the
desk, palms cupped under his chin, her son was staring
out the window with an unhappy look,
Jeremiah Kent would be fifteen in a little less
than two months. He was a strong, lean boy with his
mother's fair hair and a touch of his father's gauntness in
his cheeks. Living an itinerant life for the past
six years, Fan had experienced great
difficulty educating her sons, She'd taught them
the fundamentals of mathematics and science and tried
to interest them in reading, which she hoped would prepare them
for college study. On the whole, she'd been
unsuccessful with Gideon and Matthew. Jeremiah
was her last hope.
Books were a continual problem. Much of what was
considered good literature was published in the North.
Fan refused to expose Jeremiah to any
contemporary author even remotely connected with the
abolitionist movement. She wouldn't permit him
to read Lowell, Whittier or Professor
Longfellow. A week ago, she'd
TJ-IE Titans149
bought a volume called Poems, a title even
she admitted deserved a prize for dullness. Its
author, however, was an eminently safe South
Carolinian.
She could see the extent of Jeremiah's interest in
Mr. Timrod's verse. The book lay open-and
face down- on the desk.
Stopping next to his chair, she laid a hand on his
shoulder.
"Jeremiah, have you finished the first three
selections?"
"Oh, Ma-was He screwed up his face.
"They're dull as the devil. Nothing but silly
blab about trees and birds-was
"Mr. Timrod has a fine reputation down south.
Studying him is well worth your time. I must insist
you do the reading."
Another grimace.
"When you finish, I want you to write a brief
summary of what each poem says-the theme-was He
looked puzzled. "The meaning. I'd-like it by early
afternoon. Else there'll be no strolling on
Pennsylvania Avenue before supper."
He picked up the book as if it would poison him
on contact. "All right, I'll try again-was
"Good."
"But I hate it."
"Now, Jeremiah, don't-was
He turned sideways in his chair. "I can't
help it! There's so much to see outside. Soldiers
mustering-was
"Union soldiers," she reminded him.
"I wish I were old enough to soldier. Old enough to ride
off to Richmond like Gideon. Find a troop to
join-was
She cradled his head against her side. She
felt his tension; she often forgot such intimacies were
embarrassing to a boy his age.
150Fan's Fear
"Don't wish for that," she said. "War's an awful
business. Necessary sometimes. But people get hurt."
"What if Gideon gets hurt?"
"I pray it'll never happen. But I can't stop
him from going. Your brother's nearly eighteen. And this
war must be fought. Thank the Lord you're too young for
it." He wriggled as she embraced him again.
"You're the last of my three. I want you safe."
"Will Matt be safe on the cotton packet?"
She answered truthfully: "I don't know. I
hope so. Enough talk-you concentrate on Mr.
Timrod."
She turned to leave, hearing conversation in the parlor.
Edward's visitor had evidently arrived early.
She recognized Josiah Cheever's high-pitched
voice. Whether Edward approved or not, she
intended to listen to the discussion-
Jeremiah's voice stopped her near the door:
"Ma?"
"Yes?"
"Is my father in Washington?"
Fan stiffened. That the boy would even
express interest aroused her anger. With as much
composure as she could summon, she answered:
"I imagine so. He works here. For that filthy
Northern newspaper."
"Are you going to see him?"
"Certainly not!" Jeremiah looked downcast Her
voice softened. "Does that upset you?"
Slowly, the boy traced a finger across the lines of
Timrod's verse. He spoke hesitantly:
"Some. I know you say he was a bad man-was
Fan shook her head. "Not a bad man. A
foolish one. Completely wrong in what he
believed. It caused him to do some bad things. Things
which made it impossible for us to live with him any
longer. I've explained it all before. His
misguided ideas about the nigras were more
The Titans151
important to him than beeping our family together-or
seeing you boys raised properly. That's why I
insisted he leave our house. Really, Jeremiah,
there's no reason to bring up the subject again-was
"I know, but-was
The boy stopped. Fidgeted in the chair. Then
blurted:
"I don't remember him very well. I'd
like to see how he looks."
Fan's lips set in a bitter curve. "He
looks the same as ever, I imagine. Eyes the
color of yours. Very dark hair. You'd take him
for a Red Indian except for those eyes-was Unable
to control her anger, she snapped, "I've shown you
his picture!"
"That little tin plate you keep in the drawer?"
"Not tin. Copper."
She hadn't seen it herself in months. To examine it
was purposeless-and painful. Jephtha had sat for the
portrait in New York City in 1844 at her
request. He'd gone to New York for the
Methodist Conference-the meeting at which disagreement
over slavery had split the church into Northern and
Southern factions.
The picture was a sad reminder of how happy
they'd been in those days. Newly married, with
Gideon barely a year old. She'd hoarded her
extra kitchen funds so he could bring her a
souvenir of his visit to the great metropolis coman
image of his face transferred to metal by the
remarkable process people now called photography.
She'd never quite been able to throw away the plate and
its small silk-lined box.
Jeremiah still wasn't satisfied:
"But the last time you showed it to me, it was all
blurry-was
"Daguerreotypes fade. Please-don't
entertain any ideas of visiting your father. I'm
married to Edward now. He's your fath-was
"Not my real one."
152Fan's Fear
"Jeremiah, get back to your studies!"
With a stunned look, he averted his head and picked
up the book. Sadly, she realized he'd
probably make a botch of the paper she'd
requested. Today's lesson would be a total loss.
She told herself she needed to be tolerant. Understand
his curiosity. Blood ties were strong. They
exerted aa influence despite the countless times she'd
discussed Jephtha's errors. So she mustn't be
harsh. Just firm-
For a fleeting moment, she herself was tempted. How
did Jephtha look today? What was his state of
mind? Was he more fanatical, or less-his
As she stood watching her son, she was ashamed of her
momentary weakness. Jephtha Kent had filled their
household with grief. Even though turning him out had
brought her shame and confusion, she knew her
decision had been right. Fortunately she'd found
Edward- and with him, a new life.
Her son glanced at her as if he'd sensed her
transient indecision.
"Ma, would it really do any harm if we talked
to father for a little whi-?"
"I said studyFrom
She whirled away. Better that Jeremiah be hurt
a little by her severity than exposed again to Jephtha's
virulent ideas. To emphasize her determination,
she slammed the door as she went out.
in
On the settee near the parlor window, Josiah
Cheever was speaking softly:
"comt's the desperate need, Edward. Ydu're in a
position-was
He stopped abruptly when Fan appeared.
The Titans153
"We'll discuss it another time," Edward said. He
was seated so he faced Fan. Perhaps she imagined it,
but he seemed to be giving Cheever a glance of
warning. The visitor leaped to his feet and turned.
Josiah Cheever was about thirty. Short, frail,
and-as always-untidily dressed. He had poor
teeth and small eyes with a furtive,
crafty caste. Despite Cheever's unquestionable
loyalty to the cause, those eyes were one reason
Fan disliked him. Another-apparent as she
approached the settee-was his perpetual odor of
perspiration and flatulence.
Cheever executed a clumsy bow. "Miz
Lamont-how are you this morning?" His faintly
nasal speech put his origins somewhere in the
mountainous western counties of Virginia, where his
sympathies would have been an exception; western
Virginia was strongly Unionist
She forced a smile. "Dying to know what you and my
husband are hatching, Josiah." She seated herself in
a chair near them. Edward's thick brows drew
together in annoyance. She went on, "Edward
absolutely refuses to let me go to the
Canterbury this evening."
"His caution's wise," Cheever said.
"Seventy-five or eighty friends have promised to be
in attendance. But we're bound to have a few
goddamned-uh-a few Union sympathizers in the
audience, too. Can't ask people for political
credentials at the ticket booth, I'm
afraid."
Edward said, "I've been trying
to reassure Fan there's nothing to worry about.
We're staging a show of solidarity, that's all."
"It's a worthy purpose, ma'am," Cheever
told her.
Edward smiled. "I wouldn't appear on a
third-class variety bill if it weren't.
We've got to encourage Virginia to start men
marching on Washington the moment the state secedes."
"I realize what you're both trying to achieve,"
Fan
154Fan's Fear
said. "But it still bothers me. Is the government going
to permit that sort of activity?"
"The government" Cheever said, "is so infernally
confused right now, a thousand Virginians could
capture it lock, stock, and barrel in half an
hour. Of course, confusion's to be expected when the
man in charge practically worships niggers. A
man like that can't be
sane."
Fan shook her head. "I don't like Lincoln
any better than you, Josiah. But I know he
doesn't believe the nigra is the equal of the
white. He's made speeches stating that
explicitly."
Cheever restrained his irritation. "Maybe so. But
he's the enemy. And we've got to take
advantage of his confusion. He and that bloated
Scott and the damn fools in the cabinet are still
fumbling with the defense of this town-was
Edward interrupted: "You told me downstairs
thare's talk of troops on the way."
Cheever nodded. "Four, five hundred
volunteers coming from Pennsylvania. Nothing
to worry about. They're all green.
Massachusetts, now-that's different. The Sixth and
Eighth Massachusetts regiments are mustering.
They're trained militiamen. Brigadier-general
Ben Butler's the commander of the Eighth."
"A Democrat, for Christ's sake!" Edward
snorted.
Cheever shrugged. "All the Yanks are sleeping in
the same dirty bed these days. I suppose
Butler expects to be transferred to a regular
command once he arrives. Or should I say if he
arrives?"
The man's sly expression made Fan lean
forward. "I don't understand."
"It has to do with the railroads," Edward said.
"What do you mean?"
Cheever explained: "Both lines to Washington-the
one from Harrisburg and the one from Philadelphia-
lead to Baltimore. But neither runs directly through
the
The Titans155
city. To reach Washington, relief troops will have
to be transferred from the President Street station
of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore
to the Baltimore and Ohio's Camden Street
station. The cars have to be horse-drawn between the
stations-along the street railway route. There'll be
plenty of time for crowds to form. Plenty of time for
tempers to get warm-you know how the folks in Maryland
feel about Mr. Lincoln and his policies. Why-was
Cheever licked his lips; smiled. "comsome of those
Union lads might never get out of Baltimore
alive."
Fan's palms turned cold. Josiah Cheever
continued to smile.
"When are the troops due?" she asked.
"Can't imagine they could get here before the end of the
week," Cheever said.
"And by thetf Virginia should be out," Edward added.
"So if the timing's proper-was Cheever's yellowed
teeth glistened. "comif the relief
regiments should bog down in Baltimore due to the
anger of the good citizens of that city-and if there should be
a swift march from Richmond-Washington could be
ours."
"Edward, I don't like the sound of this," Fan said.
"I don't want you involved in stirring up street
mobs-was
"Who said anything about stirring up mobs?" he shot
back. "We're just having a theoretical
discussion."
"Absolutely right-theoretical," Cheever said.
"We aren't responsible for what happens in
Baltimore. We're merely-ah-hopeful."
"Exactly," Edward agreed.
But both men were smiling, as if enjoying a private
joke. Fan felt a stir of dread. An
honorable cause seemed to be turning to a game
played is shadows-
"Besides," her husband went on, "Josiah can't
afford to become entangled in illegal
activities." His tone grew sarcastic. "For the
present, at least, he's the devoted
156Fan's Fear
employee of one of the Union's most vigilant
defenders."
"Vigilant my as-my eye," Cheever said.
"We're lucky Mr. Lincoln's campaign
managers made their little arrangement out at the
Wigwam."
"What arrangement?" Fan asked.
"They traded a cabinet post for the Pennsylvania
delegate votes controlled by the imbecile for whom
I work. Ah-pretend to work."
"Simon Cameron-was
"Our beloved Secretary of War." Cheever
snickered. "He's so stupid, he won't know
there's been an invasion until he looks up from his
desk and sees a Virginia squirrel gun aimed
right between his eyes. Now, Edward. About that other
arrangement-was
Edward reddened. "I told you last evening, and again not
ten minutes ago, I'll handle it in my own way.
At the proper time."
For a moment, Cheever looked belligerent "I
hope so. Our mutual friends are relying on it."
Edward turned still redder. He jumped up, grasped
Cheever's arm. His knuckles were white. Cheever
glared. But the actor, taller and stronger,
intimidated the younger man. Cheever kept silent.
Finally a smile fixed itself on Edward's
face. A totally false smile, Fan knew.
He let go of his guest. Spoke calmly:
"Why don't we discuss it downstairs? You arrived
so early, I've had no chance to eat."
"Very well." Cheever's expression was truculent
What in God's name was going on? Fan wondered.
"You go ahead," Edward said. "I'll join you
shortly."
Cheever settled his soiled hat on his head. He
made a show of dusting the spot on his sleeve
Edward had gripped so hard. It was obvious to Fan
that the two men didn't care for one another. Only
their politics united them. And there seemed to be a
peculiar competition
The Titans157
for dominance between them, though the reason for it eluded
her.
"I'll be waiting, Edward," Cheever said. It was
more than a casual remark.
He glanced at Fan, his eyes like small brown
stones. "MizLamoat-a pleasure, as always."
But he looked far from pleased as he strode to the
door.
IV
The moment he was gone, Fan exclaimed:
"What was all that about? He sounded as if he were
threatening you!"
Edward chuckled. "Come, dear, you're reading too
much into it. Josiah's a little-you might call it-
unstable. He wants everyone to be as loyal to the
cause as he is."
"Edward, look me in the eye."
He did.
"What did Cheever mean about another arrangement!
Is he trying to drag you into whatever they're planning
when the soldiers come through Baltimore? Any
simpleton can see he knows all about it"
"Yes, that's it," Edward sighed-too quickly.
"Certain comcombinations of men are being organized
to stir up the crowds. Somehow Josiah will manage
to get away from the War Department and go
to Baltimore to help. He wants me to go, but I
told him I'd be recognized." There was something
sad about his confidence in his own fame, Fan thought;
sad and entirely typical of his profession. She
said nothing.
"Josiah's fervor is understandable. A lot of men
in Washington who favor the South believe the
situation demands absolute commitment"
158Fan's Fear
"And you said there was nothing you wouldn't do for the cause."
"Well-was A studied shrug. "I exaggerated a
little. I'll work it out with him, don't fear."
He squeezed her arm. Pecked her cheek. As he
did, she thought:
He's lying to me.
Lying in a way he's never lied before-
Why?
With a jaunty wave, Edward started for the door:
"I'll have a drink and some food in the bar. As
soon as I send Josiah along, I'll be
back. Oh, yes. While I think of it-was
He walked back to her. He was relaxed; smiling
in a thoughtful way. She sensed none of the pretense that
had alarmed her a moment ago.
"comI did have one thing I wanted to mention. Forgive
me, but I wonder if you've given any thought to the
fact that your former husband is probably in the
city."
Stunned, Fan struggled for words:
"Jephtha? Why, of less-than Jourse, it-it
did occur to me."
"Do you suppose it might be wise to look him
up?"
"Look him up? For what reason?"
"For the sake of the boys. I know you've assured me
he's an honest man-was
"In his own way, yes."
"And the boys are supposed to be the eventual
recipients of those funds he controls-was
"You know very well mat when Jephtha passes on,
the boys will inherit the California gold money. I
don't see why you should bring up-was
"Dammit, Fan, don't look so confounded
vacant! I'm thinking of the boys' welfare! A
whole new set of factors has been inserted in the
situation. A war. Gideon's certain to join up.
What if that angers your former husband? Angers him
so much, he decides to disinherit his sons?"
The Titans159
"Tffness unthinkable. Jephtha was foolish to put the
management of the money into Amanda Kent's hands. But
it was never done with any intent to defraud the boys."
"I thought you accused him of that very thing."
Now it was Fan who was scarlet. "I did. I-I
was furious with him in those days. I said a great many
things I shouldn't have."
"You do admit he's violently opposed
to slavery-was
"But he's not a cheat!"
"That wasn't how you felt when we met six years
ago."
"I realize. Even then, I was still angry with him-was
"You've softened toward him?"
"A little." She was surprised at her own
admission.
Edward's expression remained bland. "Even so, it
might be wise to contact him. To-oh-reassure
yourself, I've told you over and over, the money means
nothing to me. Actors have damn little regard for worldly
goods-was The charming smile reappeared. "As long as
we eat with reasonable regularity, and get our share
of applause, we're content."
"I know," Fan said. "You've always been decent
about the money. Some men wouldn't have been, I
expect."
Edward caught her hand in his. "I didn't mean
to raise an unpleasant subject. It's just an
idea that's been in my head for a day or so. You're
here-it might not be amiss to get Jephtha
to promise in writing that no matter what the boys do
in the war, he'll honor their claim to the
inheritance."
"In writing!"
"It is the safest way."
"Edward, I honestly don't think it's necessary.
Jephtha may be a Northerner now. But he cares
for his sons. You know how many letters he's written,
wanting to know about them. I never answered the letters be
160Fan's Fear
cause you said I shouldn't." That, too, she had
begun to regret.
"Perhaps I was in error. The very lack of answers could
be another reason for turning against the boys."
"It's possible, but I doubt it."
"Well, if you don't believe it's worth being
absolutely
sure-was
"Suppose he has changed his feelings about
Gideon and Matt and Jeremiah, what could I do?
And if he hasn't changed, talking to him would serve
no purpose. Besides, I-I'm neasure I'd have
the courage to face him."
Edward's smile was almost mocking: "Good God, I
hope you're not having second thoughts about the
divorce at this late date!"
"Of course not. I know I did the right thing."
"All right, let's forget it." He bussed her
cheek. "It was only a suggestion. I do confess
I had an ulterior motive for making it,
though-was
Again she felt chilled. "What motive?"
He laughed. "Why, I'd really like to get a look
at the fellow. A Bible-shouter who flip-flops
into a career as a journalist-a man you say bears a
strong resemblance to an Indian-you can't blame me
for being curious about him."
"You've seen the daguerreotype."
"Oh, but it's ancient. Faded. The truth is-was
A gentle chuckle. "comI suppose I'd really
like to know how J stack up against him. A normal enough
male reaction, wouldn't you say?"
She felt relieved. "There's no comparison.
You're the man I love, Edward."
"I'm glad. I'll be back soon-and please,
forget the whole thing. The idea was foolish."
He went to the bedroom. Through the open doorway,
Fan saw him glancing at his image in the pier
glass. He used an index finger to smooth both
sides of his mus-
The Titans161
tache, then returned to the parlor. He smiled as
he let himself out. But before the door closed, she saw
the smile change to a scowl.
Disturbed, she walked to the window bay
overlooking the street. She folded her arms across
her breast as she stood in the sunlight. The lace
curtains cast a blurred pattern on her face.
She was ashamed of her thoughts, but she couldn't escape
them:
What is he involved in? Much more than he's
telling me, I'm certain-
Fan had never distrusted nor even questioned her husband
before. Of course, she was almost sure he occasionally
indulged in sexual activity with other women. But that
wasn't a matter to be classified under the heading of
trust. It was simply a fact she acknowledged and
accepted. He was a healthy, virile man. And she
recognized her failure to satisfy him.
So it was essentially true that she'd never distrusted
Edward-nor been worried about any of his
activities.
But now, because of his sudden and surprising interest in
Jephtha, she was suspicious.
And because of his association with the enigmatic and
unpleasant Josiah Cheever, she was afraid.
Her hands moved on the sleeves of her dress.
Fingers flexing, she tried to squeeze warmth into her
body. Behind the door to the smaller bedroom, she
heard a book thud on the floor. Then
Jeremiah's voice:
"Oh, hang!"
She was too upset to go and speak to him.
CHAPTER V
The Riot
AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN that same evening, Jephtha
Kent left the city telegraph office, having just
dispatched copy to Theo Payne.
Much like a symphony, the story contained dominant
themes; themes that had come to him almost unconsciously
while he wrote at his desk in the Star office.
Terror and haste. He'd seen examples all day
long.
At the Capitol the Assistant Adjutant
General, Major Irvin McDowell, had already
started work crews fortifying the building. The iron
plates meant for the base of the unfinished dome were being
set up on the ground as temporary breastworks.
Inside, men hammered planks over the windows and
built covers for valuable paintings.
Wagons kept arriving with lumber. Other wagons
brought barrels of stone and hardened cement. The
barrels were manhandled into place to barricade main
entrances. Two huge drays delivered loads of
firewood to be used to heat the Capitol
in case some of the relief troops had to be quartered
there.
At the same time, stoneworkers continued to chip away
at the capitals of the immense Corinthian
columns for the porticos of the new Senate and
House wings. Eventually, one hundred columns
would be erected. But so far, only three had been
put in place. Others lay scattered in the mud.
The masons seemed

The Titans163
cheerful, unaffected by the grim work going on around
them.
Terror and haste. He saw it in every one of the
government buildings he visited.
Clerks and undersecretaries were clearing their desks and
packing their portmanteaus with personal belongings.
Although most of Jephtha's sources were still forbidden
to talk for the record, he didn't have much trouble
finding out that those who had resigned were Southerners.
Officers were quitting the Army and Navy as wen.
He heard that one of the best-regarded Army men in the
city, Quartermaster-General Joe Johnston-
another Virginian-was preparing his resignation in
case his state seceded; the Lee situation
all over again.
Terror and haste. He saw it when he made the
rounds of the hotels.
At Willard's a hand-written notice announced
a special meeting that evening. A volunteer guard
unit was to be recruited from hotel guests who were
remaining in Washington. The unit's organizer was
tough old Cassius M. Clay of Kentucky.
Clay's politics-abolitionist
Republicanism comhad involved him in several
duels in his native state. Some of his opponents
had lived to regret their challenges; some hadn't
In the Willard bar, Jephtha heard that another
lately arrived Republican, lanky Senator
Jim Lane, was putting together a second defense
group composed of men like himself-veterans of the factional
fighting in Kansas.
In the lobbies of the National, the Kirkwood and
several smaller hotels, he saw Senators and
Congressmen from states likely to secede settling
their hills and supervising the removal of their
baggage.
A gold piece slipped to the clerk at the National
provided him with the information that Mr. and Mrs. Edward
Lamont were registered there. The desk
ledger carried the words and comfamily after Lamont's
name.
164The Riot
At least two of the boys must be with Fan and her
spouse. Which ones, the clerk didn't know. He thought
one was fourteen or fifteen. Jeremiah. The
description of the older boy was vague. It could be
either Matthew or Gideon.
Jephtha's spirits soared. He hadn't seen his sons
in almost nine years. He had to visit Fan-doing his
best to keep a rein on his temper. He almost went
directly from the desk to the suite occupied by the
Laments. Then caution-and a practical
problem-checked him and spoiled his mood.
What if Fan denied him admittance? What if
she even refused to speak to him at the door? The
possibility wasn't all that farfetched.
He had to approach her properly. If she was
unwilling to talk to him, creating a scene would insure
that he'd never see the boys, or find out anything about
them.
He couldn't afford the time to sit in the lobby in the
hope that he might spot one of them passing through. So
he left the hotel, struggling to come up with a plan
to guarantee Fan's cooperation. By day's
end, he still hadn't thought of one.
He put the problem out of mind deliberately.
Sometimes when he was having difficulty with a key
phrase in a story, forgetting about it for a few hours
provided the quickest solution. His mind often
produced the answer unexpectedly. He hoped it
would now.
A steamy twilight was settling as Jephtha walked
from the telegraph office toward Canterbury
Hall. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks even
though night was coming on-another sign of upheaval.
Ordinarily, most people hurried indoors at sunset
Washington City provided only minimal police
service. A notoriously inefficient force of
fifty officers patrolled the capital by day. Their
salaries were paid by the municipality. At night
fifty others took over. But they worked for the
The Titans165
Federal government and spent most of their time guarding
its buildings and grounds.
Events seemed to have overcome fears of being
assaulted and robbed after dark. On Seventh, one
of the city's main business thoroughfares, a good many
respectable-looking people were abroad. But he also
noticed plenty of disreputable types.
Earlier in the day he'd felt slightly foolish
about taking Molly's pepperbox from the drawer of her
bureau. He'd taken it on an impulse
comneglecting to ask her permission. But now he was
glad he had it in the right pocket of his black
coat. Several times, usually Sunday afternoons, he
and Molly had plinked away at bottles in the
back yard of the boarding house. He knew how
to shoot If he had to defend himself, he could.
He reached the intersection of Seventh and
Louisiana, A white glare illuminated the
entire block to his right; Canterbury Hall's
outside calcium lights. Before he could turn the
corner, a pair of boys converged on him.
One was selling secessionist cockades, disthe other a
garish broadside featuring the American eagle,
the lyrics of "The Star Spangled Banner," and
harsh words about the "traitors" of the South. He
bought a broadside and stuffed it in his left pocket
Perhaps he could quote some of the copy in tomorrow's
dispatch. Of course the story Theo Payne wanted
most was the Lee interview. He'd wired Jephtha
twice that day, demanding it. Jephtha had thrown both
messages on the floor of the Star office, for Jim
to sweep away.
Moving along Louisiana, he saw a large,
rowdy crowd in front of the variety theater that
occupied the capital's old Assembly Rooms.
He elbowed his way through groups of tipsy
militiamen; passed small bands of blacks from
Negro Hill out on North Tenth, and unshaven
Irishmen from the Swampdoodle district. He was
conscious of being eyed by both the blacks and the Irish.
He kept walking. He had no intention of being
166The Riot
dragged into an alley and knocked out with a slung
shot.
Above the loud voices of the vendors, he heard the
shrill sound of a whistle from one of the piers at the
foot of Sixth or Seventh. Steamers were still carrying
passengers down the river to the railroad junctions
at Alexandria and Aquia Creek. He imagined
they were jammed with departing government employees and
their families.
A procession of three open carts rumbled by. The
carts stank; he didn't look at the heaped-up
contents. The accumulated garbage and human waste
of the city-dumped into the streets from slop jars-had
to be hauled out every night and deposited in the
countryside.
The walk in front of Canterbury Hall was bright
as noonday. As he approached, Jephtha noticed
a short, heavily bearded man in civilian
dress leaning against the building. The man's hat
brim was pulled down to his eyebrows, putting much
of his face in shadow.
He looked familiar. But it took Jephtha a
moment to recognize him. When he did, he
instantly thought of Dorn.
He scanned faces. He didn't see Dorn.
But he did spot another heavy, gray-haired
fellow he remembered from the morning of Lincoln's
arrival-the same morning he'd exchanged sharp words
with the bearded man.
Jephtha squeezed into a place along theaence wall
of the brick building adjoining the theater. A large
carriage drew up. An unescorted woman
alighted. The bearded man was immediately alert.
The woman was beautifully groomed and
expensively, though heavily, dressed for the mild,
humid weather. She wore a pelisse of vivid
red velvet with a black fur collar. Her hooped
skirt matched the color of the pelisse, and was
accented with double vertical stripes of black. The
brim of her red velvet hat drooped
fashionably front and back. A black-dyed
ostrich plume
The Titans167
frothed over the crown and trailed down the nape of
her neck.
People murmured and pointed. Mrs. Rose O'neal
Greenhow was one of Washington's most familiar
figures. And she made no secret of her
Southern sympathies.
She'd come to the city "ears ago from Marvland, a
fresh and lovelv country girl whose mother had lost her
husband. Rose lived with her aunt at the
Congressional Boarding House in the old brick
Capitol building. She quickly charmed the resident
legislators, the most famous of whom was the
"South's Sentinel," Calhoun of South
Carolina. Many said Calhoun had been the girl's
intellectual mentor, instilling in her a strong
belief in states" rights and an equally strong
antipathy toward abolitionist demagogues.
During the term of the bachelor president,
Buchanan, her house at First and T Streets
became a sort of annex of the executive mansion
and the widow, Mrs. Greenhow, was called the
unofficial queen of Old Buck's
administration.
In her forties now, she was still a lovelv woman, with
olive skin accented by lively eyes and elossv
black hair. As she glided from the carriage to the
sidewalk, a drunk lurched in front of her:
"Why, looky who's come! The Wild Rose
herself-was
Mrs. Greenhow pointed with her closed parasol.
Her eyes glittered with reflections of the calcium
lights. The bearded man watched intently as she
said:
"Would you step out of the way, sir?"
The crowd quieted. The drunk hiccoughed.
"Maybe I will. Maybe I won't."
"You will, because I intend to take my seat for the
performance."
"We gonna have a hall full of secesh shits,
are we?"
Mrs. Greenhow whacked his cheek with the parasol. The
man yelped, swore, lunged at her. The widow's
Negro driver started to hop down to help, but she
didn't
168The Riot
need him. She jabbed the ferrule of the parasol in the
drunk's neck, then kicked his right shin.
The drunk stumbled. Mrs. Greenhow swept around
him, her chin high and her eyes daring anyone else
to try to stop her. No one did.
Jenhtha's grudging smfle was a response to her
bravery. He'd never heard it called into question, even
by Washington's most malicious gossips.
Her morals, however, were a different matter. She
had contacts throughout the government, in both the
Democratic and the Republican party. Her
detractors claimed she wasn't above using her
charm-and her body-to obtain information or arrange
political favors for special friends. A number
of armv officers had also been seen going in and out of
her home. In wartime, their knowledge of confidential
militarv matters could be useful to the Southern
side. No doubt that was why the bearded man watched
her so closely.
Four well-dressed young men, each with a secession-
felt cockade pinned to his top hat. surrounded
the drunk
who had accosted Mrs. Greenhow. They began to push
and curse him. Frightened, the drunk suddenly darted
between two of the men, fled into the street and vanished behind
another waste cart.
The young men transferred their hostility to those
in the crowd who were applauding the drunk's escape.
Glares and taunts were exchanged. One of the
Southerners lifted his cane. The bearded man
slipped his hand under his coat and kept it there as the
four Southerners rearranged themselves, standing back
to back, ready for a fight.
No one in the opposition seemed willing to start it,
though there was a flurry of fist-shaking and swearing. The
young men waited. Two had canes; all looked
capable of defending themselves. The arrival of another
carriage broke the tension. The quartet casually
strolled inside, laughing.
The Titans169
The bearded man pulled his hand from beneath his coat.
Jephtha started to work his way toward him. The man
didn't notice. His attention was concentrated on the
couple who had just climbed down from the carriage.
Jephtha maneuvered to within a couple of feet of the
man. He felt the man sensed his presence. But he
had to force an acknowledgement: "Hello,
Pinkerton."
The man pivoted as if hit. His eyes, on a
level with Jephtha's chin, glared:
"You've made a mistake. My name's Allen.
Major E. J. Allen."
Another carriage unloaded three men wearing blue
cockades. There were more taunts from the Northerners
jamming the walk
"Allen, is it?" Jephtha chuckled. "I
realize not many people in the capital know what you look
like. But you won't get away with that name for long.
Especially if I say your real one again. Perhaps a
little louder."
Pinkerton clutched Jephtha's arm. "Don't
cause trouble for me, Kent. We're on the same
side-was
"I work for a newspaper. I don't know who you're
working for-or why you're in Washington. I take that
back. One of those thugs you employ told me
you're studying the security of the rail lines from
Baltimore."
"You mean Dorn."
"Ah, you got a report from him."
"Yes."
"He was watching the Long Bridge pretty
closely yesterday. That's a good distance from the rail
yards. So is Canterbury Hall."
Pinkerton's eyes were moving again. Noting
arrivals; filing away faces. "Take a word of
advice. Don't go into the bar."
"Why not?"
"Dorn's there. He doesn't like you."
Pinkerton's eyes flicked to Jephtha. "I can't
say I do either."
in
Sourly, Jephtha said, "What a surprise."
"Kent, I'm trying to do you A favor!"
"Oh?"
"The least you can do is reciprocate."
"How?"
"Forget you saw me."
Keeping his voice as low as the other man's,
Jephtha answered, "Why should I? You don't have
any official government assignment. So I'm
wondering why you're spying on citizens who've
committed no crime other than coming to a public
place."
"You damn hacks are all alike! Pry,
pry-to "
"And I'll keep prying until I get answers.
Major"
Pinkerton's teeth clenched. But Jephtha refused
to be stared down. Finally the detective whispered:
"There's going to be a secesh demonstration in the
theater. You know that or you wouldn't be here."
"I'm asking why yotfre here."
"I have no comment."
"Well, I do. I don't like my activities
reported on because I ride over to Virginia. I
don't like being threatened by clods like Dorn. Who's
backing your illegal work?"
"There's nothing illegal about taking precautions."
"Considering the kind of bullies you hire, there could
be. In fact, I'd say it's more than likely."
"I hire the best men I can get!"
"That doesn't speak very highly of your profession,
does it?"
"You're just taking it out on me because of Dorn."
"In part," Jephtha admitted. "But you're
evading my questions. Why are you here? And at whose
request?"
"Kent, don't you understand? Washington could go up like
powder before the relief troops arrive! The
government needs to identify potentially dangerous
agitators."
70The Riot
greater-than
The Titans171
"Sounds to me as if the government's suffering an
advanced case of hysteria."
"That shows how little you know. There are traitors right
here-tonight!"
Jephtha shook his head to show he wasn't convinced:
"If the Confederacy attacks the Union on the
battlefield, that's one thing. But making secret
lists at a theaer-you are making lists, I
assume-?"
"Mental ones." Pinkerton's belligerent gaze
suggested Jephtha might find himself on one of them.
"Well, I call that assigning guilt without
proof. I don't like it. I have my doubts that the
President would like it, either."
"There's no way the President win find out-unless
someone talks too freely."
Jephtha shrugged. "I report the news."
"Merciful Christ! You're not going to-was
"A little softer, Major." Jephtha smiled. "People
are noticing you."
Flushed, Pinkerton leaned closer. "You're not
going to report any of this?"
"It depends."
"On what?"
"First of all, on what happens the rest of the evening.
If your bully boys get out of hand, it'll be in
my paper as soon as I can write it and
they can set it."
Pinkerton looked trapped. "That's
unconscionable! If you have any loyalty to the
Union, exercise a little control!" His voice
took on a pleading note. "What my men and I
are doing is in the national interest-was
"That excuse could cover a multitude of sins.
Or should I say crimes?"
Pinkerton wiped his sweating forehead. Droplets of
perspiration glistened in his beard. Jephtha savored
the moment. During the day, he'd made some
inquiries. Some of Allan Pinkerton's
operatives had been oh
172The Riot
served near the railroad yards. Their presence
wasn't a secret. But their chiefs was.
He didn't doubt the sincerity of Pinkerton's
fear of potential violence. Yet the man's
presence still alarmed and angered him. Years ago in
Lexington he'd thought it his moral duty to conspire
with Syme and operate secretly against those who had
trusted him when he occupied a pulpit. Tonight he
found the idea of covert police
surveillance-American turning against American-
despicable. It was another indication of how
he'd changed.
Pinkerton licked his lips. "Kent?" "What?"
"Will you or won't you keep quiet?" "I told
you-it depends on what happens tonight. If there is a
demonstration for the South, we'll see whether you can
control your men."
"But I'm not planning to be inside the theater-was
"Afraid someone might recognize you? They
haven't so far."
"None of my men will get out of hand." "I wish I
shared your confidence." "They're under orders to watch,
nothing more." "I'm not sure Mr. Dorn has the
mental capacity to understand orders in English or
any other language. I hope he remembers
nobody's yet revoked the right of free speech.
If he forgets, I promise you I'll write a
story you won't like."
"Goddamn it, hell obey orders! But I can't
be responsible for what happens between the two of you."
"That's fair warning," Jephtha said. "I've already
given you mine."
He turned and started to push his way into the theater,
leaving Pinkerton in the glare of the calcium lights.
The Titans173
ii
While Jephtha stood in line to purchase his
ticket, he studied the crowd.
Canterbury Hall usually attracted a
lower-class audience. Typical of its patrons
was the man just in front of him. A mechanic or day
laborer; poorly dressed and working a big wad of
tobacco in his jaw. The man spat juice on the
floor as the line moved forward slowly.
Tonight, tobacco-chewers were in the minority. Young
dandies, of the kind who'd threatened the drunk,
clustered in small groups throughout the smoky lobby.
Almost all of them carried canes and displayed the
blue rosette of rebellion on their hats or
lapels. Most of them seemed in a festive mood.
Jephtha also recognized a couple of army
officers- out of uniform-and several government clerks,
including one frail, jittery fellow named
Cheever, from War. Cheever stood at the entrance to the
bar adjoining the lobby. Jephtha watched three men
approach Cheever one at a time. The clerk
whispered something to each of them.
He didn't see Rose Greenhow. She'd
evidently entered the auditorium. There were only a
few other women present. Each was well dressed
and escorted. He wondered whether
Lamont had urged Fan to remain at the hotel
because of potential danger.
Beside the grille of the ticket booth a poster listed
the actors in order of appearance. Edward Lamont
was third on the bill. Seeing the actor's name in
elaborate type momentarily enraged Jephtha.
At last he was able to buy his twenty-five-cent
ticket. He shoved his way to the door of the bar.
Cheever was gone.
Cigar fumes, loud talk and the smell of beer
drifted
174The Riot
out of the bar. The gas was turned low, but Jephtha
soon spotted Samuel Dorn's blond head.
Over a drink, Dorn was talking with the stout,
gray-haired detective he'd seen outside.
Dorn began making nervous little moves,
unconsciously aware of being watched. Presently
he turned his head; saw Jephtha. His face
registered surprise. Then he smiled and raised his
schooner in a mock salute. There was no humor in
his eyes.
Jephtha turned away, but slowly, as if
Dorn's presence didn't bother him. His fear of the
young detective wasn't cowardice so much
as common sense. He'd learned that there were a few
human beings who were wholly and inexplicably
cruel.
He was sure Dorn would like to corner him. Jephtha
believed he was probably" as strong as the
detective, though he lacked the advantage of
youth. And he knew nothing about fist fighting. Dorn
undoubtedly knew a great deal.
Jephtha was quite thankful for the pepperbox in his
pocket
in
The smoke and noise in the gas-lit auditorium
were even worse than in the lobby. He crowded onto
one of the center benches halfway back. Pulled out
his watch. The performance began at eight Five
minutes to go.
He saw Cheever bustle down to a seat being saved
for him by two friends in the fourth row. Mrs. Green-
how sat directly behind, alone and unmolested by the
men on either side of her.
All at once Jephtha recognized the fellow
immediately to his left It was the tobacco-chewer from the
ticket line.
The Titans175
The man reached into his right pocket as the
piano player entered the shallow pit. There was
scattered applause; some shouts about the
musician's parentage and the state of his genitals.
Jephtha saw what the tobacco- chewer had taken from
his coat.
A rock.
"Think you'll need that tonight?" Jephtha asked.
"Could be. Some secesh actor's gonna make a
speech." He grinned. "Gonna try, anyway."
He tossed the rock up and caught it
The piano player adjusted his stool, fussed with his
inked sheets of music, then launched into a
clangorous fanfare. Boys carrying long poles
moved down the side aisles to adjust the gaslight
cocks. In less than a minute the auditorium
was dark. The footlight candles shimmered on a
painted curtain bearing the hall's name and a badly
painted pastoral scene.
Boots thumped in the aisle to Jephtha's left
Samuel Dorn and his gray-haired associate
hurried down to the second row. While the fanfare
worked to a climax, Dorn tried to sit down on the
bench he'd chosen. Two men objected. Dorn
bent and said something to one of the complainers. A moment
later, he and his companion had seats.
Jephtha's eyes adjusted to the dim light. He
didn't see Allan Pinkerton anywhere. He'd
apparently stuck to his plan to remain safely
outside.
At the conclusion of the long fanfare, the house
curtain rolled up to reveal a backdrop from which the
paint was flaking. It represented a European
palace surrounded by formal gardens. There were whistles
and clapping as a busty, pock-marked woman in
tights minced from the wings at stage left. She
placed a sign on an easel:
176The Riot
THE CANTERBURY GIRLS
The piano player started hammering a gallopade.
A half-dozen women in tights, high boots and
brief costumes of garish orange velveteen
danced on. Anns resting across each other's
shoulders, they stared into the darkness with fixed smiles.
If one of them was under thirty, Jephtha was St.
Paul.
The Canterbury Girls went through a routine of
kicks, steps and turns, bending over occasionally
to display their covered bottoms. The audience
response was predictable:
"Come down here, sweetie!"
"Show us if 'em tits are real, huh-was
"How much fer a lay afterward, red?"
Mercifully, the Canterbury Girls only
performed one number, but they pranced off to loud
applause. The management was too frugal
to provide a different scenic background for each
turn. Only a new placard went on the easel:
The
Agile Astonishing ZOLKOS!
A trio of thick-armed, sweating acrobats bounded
on stage to exhibit their ability to tumble and walk
while contorted into human U's, their palms and
feet on the floor and their bellies pointed toward
the fly loft The turn lasted more than ten minutes.
It was frequently interrupted by hissing and boos.
The act ended with two of the acrobats balancing the
third on then: shoulders. More boos and obscene
shouts-until the piano player started a crescendo
and the man at the top of the human pyramid reached under
his sweaty singlet to produce a little American
flag.
The Titans177
About half the audience leaped np, cheering. Jephtha
heard more than one person shout, "Hurrah for the
Union!"
A few opposing catcalls rang out. But no more.
Jephtha guessed the Southern sympathizers were
saving their enthusiasm for-
The Distinguished Tragedian MR. EDWARD
LAMONT
At the sight of the new easel card, Jephtha's
throat went dry. He rubbed his palms back and
forth over the knees of his trousers as a decrepit
stagehand brought on a small tripod table, then a
pitcher of water and a glass. After the man shambled
off stage right, Lamont appeared on the opposite
side. Someone behind Jephtha yelled:
"Stay off the stage, you goddamn traitor!"
Expressionless, Lamont gazed into the dark, then
smiled as friendly applause drowned out a second
protest. Jephtha saw Mrs. Greenhow
clapping.
Lamont continued to smile as he walked to the table
at center stage. Unconsciously, Jephtha
clenched his right hand. That was the man Fan had chosen in
preference to him. The man who now slept in her bed-
As his initial flash of anger cooled, he was able
to concede Lamont was a commanding figure. In his
raid- to late forties, he was tall and solid.
By sixty he might be corpulent. But his
tight-fitting tails and waistcoat revealed no
paunch. He had curly brown hair and a full
mustache. Neither showed any gray.
One hand resting on the edge of the tripod table, he
waited for the tumult to die-It did; abruptly.
People sat forward on the benches. When the piano
player rearranged his music, the rustle of the sheets
was loud in the silence. To Jephtha's left,
178The Riot
the man with the rock tossed it up and down; up and
down-
He was grinning again.
iv
"Ladies and gentlemen, good evening. I am Edward
Lamont." The actor's rich voice projected
to the icar of the hall without a hint of effort
"We know who you are! A no-good secesh son of a
bitch!"
Once more Lamont waited. Jephtha tried
to judge him objectively. He might not be
genuinely handsome. His eyes were too close together.
And he seemed to lack that indefinable but unmistakable
quality that marked the truly great actor.
But neither was he inadequate. When the clapping and some
equally loud jeers faded, he resumed with
flawless diction-and no accent:
"I do not intend to offer the program previously
planned for this appearance. The hour is too late."
His eyes flicked across the audience; reflected the
footlight candles; burned.
"The crimes of the Republican government are already
too numerous and heinous for citizens of good conscience
to ignore them and take refuge in light
entertainment. The blessed principles of freedom on
which this nation was founded have been attacked. Attacked in
a manner both vile and unprecedented-was
An older man leaped up. "Who the shit fired on
Sumter? Answer me that!"
"Be still or get out, you Yankee clown," a young
man called from the second row at stage left.
Angry murmurs spread through the auditorium.
Ifs coming, Jephtha thought.
Lamont paused a third time. Finally the
insults-to
The Titans179
him and to other members of the audience-died away.
Certainly the actor was brave-or would it be more
correct to say insane?--to expose himself to the kind
of ugliness that was loose in the dark hall.
"In view of that attack," he went on,
"it behooves free men to take action. To reaffirm
their belief in the principle of the sovereignty of
individual states. To resist the tyranny which
reaches out from this very city in an outrageous attempt
to crush liberty in its cruel, simian grip."
Laughter; hissing. The word simian was perfectly
understood as an insulting reference to Lincoln's
appearance. Voice rising, Lamont continued:
"On the twentieth of December last, the great
commonwealth of South Carolina dared to be the first
to defy that tyranny. She was soon followed by six
other sovereign states, which, together, dedicated themselves
to the formation of a government designed to represent the
interests of those who always have been, are today and always shall
be the only true citizens of this nation. I mean
white Americans."
More applause; more shouts-the ferocity of both greater
than before.
"Less than one hundred years ago, such men
joined in compact to throw off a foreign oppressor,
create a new nation and promote the common good. Today
the descendants of those men have chosen to disavow that
compact-because they have been betrayed by the very government their
forebears fought and bled to establish!"
Stillness. Even Lamont's foes were
listening; or perhaps waiting for some signal for an
all-out attack.
If the actor was fearful he didn't show it His
eyes seemed brighter. His brow glistened. He took
two quick steps toward the footlights. His left hand
fisted. Then he lifted it dramatically-
"Yes, my fellow citizens, today there are two
govern
180The Riot
ments in this tortured land. But only one-the
Provisional Government of the Confederate States of
America comstands for the right of every person to live his
life as he chooses. For decades the patriotic
and Godfearing men of the South have been branded
villains- brutes-whoremongers!-by the madmen who
now manipulate the lewd and illiterate
Illinois lawyer like some pathetic puppet-was
-A jerky gesture was startling in the way it suggested
a puppeteer's hand. Jephtha could almost see a
marionette dancing.
"But that evil congeries of conspirators which piously
professes to be America's Constitutional
government is not! It is instead an abomination in the
sight of all liberty-loving people. An abomination
to be resisted! Overturned!
"It surely will be. The flame of freedom within
Southern breasts cannot be quenched. Not by threats- not
by blockade-not by military force. Each attempted
suppression-each feeble and frightened attempt
to diminish the brilliance of that flame will only make
it shine the brighter-until its cleansing fire consumes
the wicked men of Washington City-which will become a
Southern city within hours of the day noble Virginia
joins her brave sisters in secession!"
In the front row at stage right, a man threw
something. Lamont sidestepped. The brown, rancid
cabbage struck the painted drop, rippled it and
fell, splattering apart
"That, sir, is the kind of act I would expect of a
member of Mr. Lincoln's rabble." He faced
front. "Make no mistake, ladies and
gentlemen. Virginia will join the Confederacy. And
other states as well. So let us stand-was
He spread his arms, palms upward.
"Stand up together-was
People began rising, including Mrs. Greenhow.
The Titans181
"comand declare our solidarity. Let us send a
message to Richmond that her special convention cannot
fail to hear. A message that the free men
and women of Washington City await the victorious
armies of General Beau- regard! The armies that will
liberate us from the yoke of the crude and perverted
Westerner who now sits enthroned only a few
blocks from this theater. A message, ladies and
gentlemen! To Richmond! To all the South-was
He flung up his arms.
"To the world!".
The man beside Jephtha jumped up, screamed a:
curse and threw the rock.
Lamont dodged. The rock struck the pitcher and
broke it, splashing water on the actor's evening
suit. A
piece of flying glass nicked his cheek. A little
line of blood showed bright against his skin.
He didn't move, even though people all over
Canterbury Hall were surging to their feet, friends as
well as enemies. Quite against his will, Jephtha found
himself admiring Lamont's courage.
"A message of faith and loyalty!" he cried.
"Calling them to come-to conquer-for the Confederacy-to "
Another rock whizzed near Lamont's head. He
ducked, his eyes flashing a cue to the nervous piano
player. The first chords produced the loudest
clapping yet.
All around, Jephtha saw frenzied faces, some
afire with enthusiasm, others twisted with rage.
Mouths screamed words he couldn't understand. Madness,
he thought. Madness-
Somehow, one voice rang out over the din. Lamont
was flushed-and singingccI
"I wish I was in the land of cotton, Old times
there are not forgotten-was
182The Riot
"No! No backslash was men howled, leaping over
benches, pushing forward, clogging the fronts of the
aisles. Yet over their protests and their cursing,
the lyric Lamont had begun was picked up by a
dozen voices-
Then two dozen-
Then a hundred, until the song began to swell,
proud and defiant:
"Look away! Look away! Look away!
Dixie Land.
In Dixie Land, where I was born in,
Early on a frosty mornin"com"
Men tried to reach the steps to the stage. Others pushed
them back. Lamont held his ground, his right hand
moving in rhythm, his head thrown back defiantly.
The thunder of the song shook the hall:
"Look away! Look away! Look away!
Dixie Land!"
Jephtha had to stand on the bench to see what was
happening down by the footlights. Fists and canes were
being raised. Men began to hit each other. One against
one; a group against one or two; group against group.
Stones, rotten fruit-even a Bowie knife-were
hurled at Lamont. Each time, he moved just enough
to avoid being hit. But he didn't show any sign
of alarm, or shift toward the safety of the wings.
At the back of the hall a voice wailed:
"Stop this! You're destroying my theater-was
The unseen owner was drowned out:
"Then I wish f was in Dixie, hooray!
Hooray!
In Dixie Land, I'll take my stand,
To live and die in Dixie-was
In the aisle nearest Jephtha, a singing man was
set on by two others. Thrown down. He shrieked
as they stamped on his groin.
The Titans183
Was there no end to the irony? Jephtha thought. The
song rousing such hatred was innocent; innocuous-and the
work of a Northerner, Dan Decatur Emmett,
who had written it for one of Bryant's
minstrel shows.
The song had fired the South's imagination after its first
performance in 1859. By the time Jefferson Davis
had gone to Montgomery to organize the new
Confederacy, "Dixie's Land" had been
transmuted from a commonplace tune to a holy
anthem. The Union had carried a story reporting
that poor Emmett was a pariah in his native
state-
"Away, Away, Away down South in Dixie!
AWAY, AWAY, AWAY DOWN SOUTH IN
DIX-WAS
"Watch out, Lamont!" someone screamed. A
pistol went off.
Bedlam.
Men who had been pommeling one another began
to fight toward the exits. Benches sailed through the
air. Jephtha saw other men fall, faces
streaming blood. Edward Lamont clutched the
proscenium at stage left He'd lunged there
to escape the shot that had pierced one of the painted
fountains on the drop.
The shrieking-the fighting-the sudden panic touched off
by the gunshot-they were the signs of mass insanity.
Jephtha almost wanted to weep. He
struggled toward the aisle, his senses collecting
fragmentary impressions:
The scarlet face of a frock-coated dandy bellowing
"Dixie's Land" while he drove an older man
to his knees and beat the man's temples with his
cane. The man pitched over-
A group formed around Mrs. Greenhow. She kept
singing as her protectors tried to lead her up the
aisle to safety.
The rock-thrower who had sat beside Jephtha had
184The Riot
now reached the third row, found a victim and was using
his thumbs to gouge the man's eyes. One socket
oozing blood, the victim was on his knees wailing
like an infant.
Lamont still hadn't left the stage. Eight
Southerners formed a human chain in front of the
shallow pit from which the piano player had disappeared.
Suddenly two men charged the line-
Dorn and the other Pinkerton. With revolvers.
The detectives punched, butted, and broke through.
Dorn scrambled up on the stage, his companion right
behind. Lamont started to back into the wings at stage
left. Dorn grabbed his shoulder, held him till
the other detective caught up.
Five of the men in the pit started to go to Lamont's
assistance. Dorn brandished his gun:
"Stay away! We're friends. We'll protect
him!" The men in the pit hesitated. Another
heavy-set fellow tried to bull past them: "The
hell you will-to "
Two of the men in the pit wrestled him back. Then,
unbelievably, Dorn aimed at the attacker.
Pulled the trigger-
A spurt of fire. The heavy man sprawled across
an overturned bench, shot in the stomach. That convinced
Lamont's defenders of Dorn's sincerity. The
men let Dorn and his cohort thrust the
relieved-looking actor offstage.
Jephtha gaped like a bumpkin. Where the hell was
Pinkerton? Why was he letting his operatives
worry about the safety of a Southerner-his Then it
struck. He was ashamed of his own stupidity. Dorn
knew Pinkerton had planned to remain outside.
He had no intention of protecting Lamont. And
he'd shot an innocent man just so he could get his
hands on the actor-
Despicable as Edward Lamont might be, Dorn
was
The Titans185
infinitely more so. Jephtha leaped across broken
benches, heading for the stage.
The riot was losing its ferocity, though there were still
crashes and screams; the tinkle of glass from
shattered glass fixtures; oaths and the thud of
boots as panicked men struggled to squeeze through the
doors to the lobby. A solitary tenor still sang
"Dixie"-
All at once Jephtha realized his motive for
going to Lamont's aid wasn't solely
humanitarian. Even before he was aware of it, his
mind had reduced the answer to the problem that had
frustrated him all day. Helping Lamont would
make reaching Fan a certainty. She couldn't turn
him away-
What a cynical bastard you've become, he thought,
weaving down the aisle between the eight men who had left
the pit once Lamont was hustled offstage. In a
faint voice, the man Dorn had shot pleaded for
help. No one paid attention.
Jephtha knew his plan offered both risk and
ample opportunity for failure. To make the
plan work, he had to locate Lamont and prevent
the Pinkertons from harming him.
Another glass bowl on a gaslight
broke, hit by a stone. Jephtha ran up the steps
at the end of the stage right aisle, then started across
toward the opposite side. He walked rapidly,
almost unnoticed now that the theater was emptying.
He was more than a little afraid of what might be
waiting in the dark of the wings. He shoved his hand
into his pocket and closed his fingers around the ivory
grips of the Sharps.
CHAPTER VI
The Detectives
CONSCIOUS OF THE NEED for haste-Dorn and his
crony might already be spiriting Lamont-out through the
alley-Jephtha plunged into the blackness
backstage.
Here and there a gas jet cast a pool of light on
a prop table or a rolled backdrop. In the
surrounding dark, shadow-figures moved; panicked
men and women hurrying to escape the theater. A
whistle shrilled in the auditorium. Evidently
some of Washington's night police had been
summoned for the emergency.
He passed two of the Canterbury Girls wearing
cloaks. They smelled of sweat and heavy perfume.
The alley door slammed a moment later.
Footsteps scurried behind him. The door
slammed again.
In one of the gas-lit areas, a small perspiring
man was hastily putting on his jacket. Jephtha
hurried toward him. The man started as Jephtha
appeared in the light:
"Are you the stage manager?"
The little man fingered his mustache. "That's right. Who the
hell are you?"
"Never mind. Two men brought Lamont offstage.
Where did they go?"
"I don't know. I didn't see."
The man's brow glistened under the gas. His eyes
showed his fright-and his lie. Jephtha jerked the
pepperbox from his pocket.

The Titans187
The manager backed against the table, whiter than ever:
"Believe me, I had nothing to do with what happened!
I saw Lamont whispering to the piano player. But
I don't know anything else, I swear I-was
Jephtha shoved the four-barrel muzzle against the
manager's vest:
"I hope your memory improves. I'm with the
Pinkerton agency."
The manager reacted with an even more
violent start. The detective's name had a
terrifying potency.
"Ill ask you again. Where did those men take
Lamont?"
"Down-was The manager's hand shook as he pointed.
"Down to the cellar-I think."
"Not to the alley? Not outside?"
"For God's sake, I can't be certain! You can
see how dark it is back here! As soon as the
trouble started, people were running every which way. I think the
men went down the stairs. You-you wouldn't-do anything just
because I'm not sure-was
The little man was on the point of weeping. Jephtha
pushed him aside and dashed into the dark.
He collided with two of the Zolkos dressed for the
street. The acrobats cursed in some unfamiliar
European tongue. Jephtha avoided an angry
fist and dodged between them.
He jumped over three rolled drops laid on the
floor. Another hooded gas jet high up on a
brick wall shed just enough light to reveal a stairway
to the basement
At the top step, he hesitated. He wondered
what the stage manager would think if he knew the
man who had accosted him was nearly as
frightened as he had been-
In the auditorium, police whistles shrilled
again. The sound faded. Jephtha stole down the iron
stairs as silently as possible.
188The Detectives

At the bottom he scanned the grimy corridor.
To his left a spot of blue gaslight revealed
a man leaning beside a closed door. It was the
detective with the gray hair. From behind the door
Jephtha heard a pulping sound-a hard
blow-followed by a moan. The gray-haired
detective smiled.
All at once Jephtha knew he was rash to try
this. A fool; out of his depth. But he still slipped the
pepperbox into his pocket and stepped from the shadow
at the foot of the stairs.
He walked briskly toward the detective. The
man straightened up, his hand stabbing under his jacket and
staying there. In his pocket Jephtha clutched the
butt of Molly's gun. His fingers were slippery with
sweat.
Behind the door someone struck a second blow. A
third. A harsh voice said something Jephtha couldn't
understand. Crying out, "another voice
blurred the first.
Before the detective drew his gun, Jephtha put
him on the defensive:
"Allen wants you. Right away."
The man's small eyes showed confusion. "Allen-?"
Jephtha had trouble breathing. His legs shook as he
said:
"Doesn't the name Major Allen mean anything
to you?"
"Maybe. But-was
Another heavy sound beyond the door. Then the hectoring
voice; Jephtha recognized it as Dorn's.
On the door, faded white letters spelled the word
Properties.
"Dorn's prisoner screamed. The gray-haired
detective seemed confused by Jephtha's
assertive stare. He mumbled the rest of his sentence:
"comb I don't know you."
The Titans189
Jephtha used the first name that came to mind:
"Emerson. Chicago office. You mean to say
you're acquainted with every man on the Pinkerton
payroll?"
The sarcasm made the other man lick his lips.
He was none too bright, Jephtha
decided. He pressed his advantage:
"I'll take over here. The major's outside the
theater."
The detective glanced at the door, guilty.
"But he doesn't know anything about-that is-was
"Maybe that's why he wants'you."
For a moment Jephtha was certain he'd failed. The
man continued to peer at him. Jephtha grabbed his
shoulder. The man grunted angrily as Jephtha
jerked him away from the wall:
"He wants you now, damn it!"
The detective moved back, his arm rising
threateningly, his fist clenched for striking.
"I'm telling you-you'd better step lively or the
major's going to be looking for your replacement."
Playing the bluff to the limit, he put his back
against the door. It was lucky the detective couldn't
hear how fast his heart was beating.
In the property room, the blows hadn't stopped.
La- mont was whimpering. Jephtha caught a
snatch of Dorn's voice:
"comy rucking traitor, who planned your little
performance tonight?"
"Will you get moving?"
Jephtha's harsh whisper produced a
response. With an uncertain look, the
detective wheeled and scuttled up the stairs.
Jephtha closed his eyes, almost faint. With nerve
and a faked air of authority, he'd pulled it off.
But the most dangerous part remained.
Once the gray-haired detective was out of sight,
he checked the revolving hammer of the Sharps. It was
ready to fire. He bent over the door latch,
lifting it
190The Detectives
slowly-slowly and soundlessly-until he was sure it
was free.
Then he sucked in a breath and kicked the door
open.
At the sound of the door crashing back, Samuel
Dorn whirled. Jephtha saw Dorn's startled
face against an eerie background.
A short way down an aisle running to the rear of the
huge, gloomy prop room, an oil lamp rested
on a closed trunk. On either side of the aisle,
racks held dozens of dusty costumes. There was
theatrical paraphernalia everywhere comgaudy
headdresses; a large freestanding mirror; a box
of tambourines; another trunk with a yellowed human
skull perching on its corner. The old
mirror reflected the skull's distorted image.
In the center of the aisle and perhaps three feet beyond the
lamp, Samuel Dorn had roped Lamont into an
imitation regency chair from which the gilt had long ago
disappeared. Lamont's head lolled toward his left
shoulder. His bruised face bled from the nose, The
blood dripped from his chin to the bosom of his dress
shirt.
Dorn was crouched in front of Lamont but facing the
door. On the detective's right hand Jephtha
saw metal knuckles, smeared red. He pointed
the pepperbox at Dorn:
"Don't move,"
Lamont heard him. Tried to open his eyes. He
couldn't He rolled his head to the other side,
groaning. Mucus leaked from his nose along with the
blood.
Dorn's blue eyes bored into Jephtha. "Where the
hell did you come from., Reverend? Where's that stupid
Muflerr
The Titans191
"The man outside? I sent him away. I told
him I worked for the Chicago office."
Dorn's jaw clenched. "The dumb son of a
bitch!" He started toward Jephtha, the
brass-knuckled hand rising. Jephtha leveled the
pepperbox:
"I said stay right there!"
Dorn stopped.
"Untie him, Dorn.
"The hell I will."
"You'd better. I don't think you brought Lamont
down here on the orders of Major
Allen-Pinkerton."
The front of Dorn's jacket was marked with
Lamont's blood. The lamp threw his huge,
crooked shadow over the trunk and the yellow-toothed
skull a short way up the aisle behind him. The
shadow shifted as he shook his head:
"I'll be goddamned if I understand this-unless there
really was something behind your trip to Virginia. Are you
and this secesh bastard tangled up in what went on
upstairs?"
"Dorn, you're stupider than a wild hog. I'm
down here for one reason. I don't like private
policemen who beat people because of their politics. Beat
them without authority-was
Dorn blinked. Jephtha had hit on the truth.
Lamont stirred in the chair as Dorn shouted:
"He's an enemy of the government, for
Christ's sake! I'm going to find out who planned
the show tonight. I'm sure it wasn't just Lamont.
For one thing, there were too many Southerners in the
audience. That whore Mrs. Greenhow-and a lot more."
He tried to sound confident. "I'm doing the job
I'm supposed to do."
"I still doubt your employer authorized methods like
this."
The big young man was breathing more regularly now.
Standing to his full height; in control. Jephtha's
192The Detectives
hand grew slippery on the gun's ivory grips.
Dorn was trapped; knew it; might try to get out
of the trap any way he could.
Finally, with a smug grin, Dorn said:
"No, he didn't But he'll be happy to have the
information I get from him-was A gesture to the actor;
the elongated shadow of Dorn's arm flickered across
racks of costumes at the periphery of the light.
"And I will get it, Reverend. Soon as I finish
with you. Your name's right on the list with Lamont's."
Jephtha felt weary. It was foolish to argue with
Dorn, The detective could spout platitudes
about defending the city and the Union without believing a
word. He enjoyed this land of work. And
Jephtha's presence threatened him. All the more
reason to stop wasting time:
"Move back so I can untie him."
Dorn's blue eyes glared in the lamplight He
grinned suddenly.
"Fuck you, Reverend. I doubt you know how to use that
gun you've waving around."
Coloring, Jephtha leveled the pepperbox. The
muzzles aimed at Dorn's breastbone.
"Let's find out."
Dorn started to snicker. Jephtha's expression
cut it short.
"Now wait a minute. If you get nervous-was The
detective's smile looked sickly all at
once. "Hell, I could get hurt pretty
bad-was
"That's very astute of you, Dorn. You're not quite as
dumb as you act."
The detective's smile disappeared.
"I'm going to untie him," Jephtha repeated.
He couldn't risk having Dorn do it "Take
three steps backward. But keep facing me."
Dorn hesitated.
"You hear me? Three steps. Mover
The Titans193
The rage in Samuel Darn's eyes was raw and
intimidating. He peered into the four muzzles of the
Sharps, let out a disgusted breath, and shifted his
weight "Slowly," Jephtha warned.
Dorn slid his right foot to the rear. Jephtha
started forward. Dorn took a second step. Too
late, Jephtha noticed the detective's hand
close to the prop skull resting on the trunk.
Dorn snatched the skull, flung it, ducked just as
Jephtha did. Jephtha jerked the trigger.
His shot went wild, chunking a wall far back in
the darkness. The skull hit the door behind him and
broke. Old bone rattled on the plank floor
as Dorn launched himself forward, his movements
incredibly fast
Jephtha was still crouched. The toe of Dorn's boot
whipped up and caught him under the chin. His head
snapped back. He staggered, jolted with pain.
Dorn belly-punched him. First with his right hand, then
his left The second punch slammed Jephtha against
the wall near the open door. He slid downward.
A knee came out of nowhere to crush Jephtha's right
wrist against the wall. The pepperbox slipped from his
fingers. Dorn kicked him between the legs. Jephtha
almost screamed.
"Now," Dorn whispered, his perspiring face very
close. "Now, you goddamn traitor-now we'll
see whether your muscles are as big as your mouth."
He shot his right fist at Jephtha's jaw.
Jephtha jerked his head aside. Dorn's
knuckle-dusters raked his chin. The blow banged his
head into the wall a second time.
Jephtha started to sag again. Dorn grabbed his coat
Hauled him up. Jephtha had a distorted view of
Dorn's blue eyes-
Murderous.
He fought back. Gave Dorn a knee in the
genitals. Dorn exhaled hard; warm, stale
breath-
He brought his right hand up between Dorn's arms-
194The Detectives
the detective was still holding him-and struck for
Dorn's eyes.
Dorn tried to twist away. One of Jephtha's
nails nicked his left eyeball. Dorn gasped
and let go.
Jephtha bowled into the detective with his shoulder.
Knocked him off balance. Kicked his leg-
Dorn stumbled and fell. His head struck the corner
of a trunk. His eyes seemed to glaze.
Jephtha dropped on his bellyi with both knees.
He hurt. His head rang. His eyes were blurring.
He hadn't been in a fight of any consequence
since his boyhood in Oregon. But he knew this
contest would have only one winner.
Just when Jephtha thought his adversary was weakening,
Dorn heaved upward. He'd only been
pretending.
Panting, Jephtha sprawled in the aisle. Dorn
jumped up. Aimed a boot at Jephtha's
ribs. Jephtha rolled away from it. The miss
cost Dorn his balance for a few seconds.
Jephtha staggered to his feet
Dorn threw another punch. Jephtha ducked. The
metaled fist slashed by his ear. For an instant he
thought he saw surprise in Dorn's icy eyes-
s
Dorn's right arm was still extended. Jephtha slammed
his left fist into Dorn's throat.
The detective gagged, his eyes popping. Jephtha
ducked under his flailing arms, raced to the door,
scrambled on hands and knees until he found the
pepperbox. Behind him, he heard Dorn's pained
breathing.
A rattle of metal brought Jephtha's
head around. Dorn had flung the metal knuckles
away. He pulled a clasp knife from his coat.
He bit the edge of the blade and tugged the handle. The
knife opened.
He sidled forward, his boots scraping. He'd
lost some of his energy. But he seemed to regain it as
he came nearer. His right hand arced over and down,
driving the knife point at Jephtha's head-
The Titans195
Still on his knees, Jephtha shot him.
The small-caliber ball was fired close enough
to Dorn to stop him. He screamed, more in outrage
than pain. The ball had hit him in the left
side, near the ribs. Jephtha clearly saw the
burned black hole in Dorn's coat
The detective swayed, blinking faster and faster as
the wound bled and drained his strength. The knife
clattered onto the floor.
Still blinking, Dorn peered at Jephtha. His lips
worked but no sound came. His right hand twisted the
fabric of his coat where the ball had entered.
Blood began to ooze between his fingers, shining in the
lamplight.
When he was finally able to speak, he sounded wheezy-and
astonished:
"You-you're the-goddamnedest preacher I--ever came
up ags-was
Dorn's eyes rolled up in his head as the lids
closed. He fell across one of the property
trunks, his arms dangling down the far side, his
back heaving.
Further up the aisle, Edward Lamont tried
to focus his eyes on the source of the noise. He
couldn't. His head still bobbed like a drunken man's.
The cuts on his face had clotted. The bruises
were already darkening.
Shaking, Jephtha thrust the pepperbox in his
pocket. He had trouble standing up. He ached. His
vision multiplied images. He saw two oil
lamps. Then three. He grew uncontrollably
dizzy-
His legs gave out He struck the floor hard, just
as someone came running down the hall.
He lay with his cheek against the splintery planks,
close to fainting. If Miller had come back
to kill him, there was nothing he could do.
196The Detectives
IV
"comsd his name was Emerson. Emerson from the Chicago
office-was
"There's no Emerson in Chicago, you idiot!"
Jephtha struggled to stay conscious. The dizziness
subsided a little. He tried to brace his hands on the
floor. The first man exclaimed:
"Oh, my God, Dorn's been shot!"
"We've got worse trouble than that. Damn!"
Jephtha managed to open his eyes. He
recognized the angry voice. He struggled to his
hands and knees-and was helped to his feet by Allan
Pinkerton.
Pinkerton snarled at Miller:
"I know this man. Kent, are you all right?"
Jephtha weaved on his feet. Alternating waves
of heat and cold swept over him. Every blow Dorn
had struck still hurt like the devil.
His breathing slowed. He felt a touch of startled
pride. He'd held his own against Dorn.
But almost at the price of his life. He started
trembling again.
"Kent?" Pinkerton repeated.
"I-I'm all right."
Miller bent over the trunk where the younger man
sprawled. "Major Allen, he's bleeding bad-was
"Let him We were here to watch. That's all! Whose
idea was it to drag that actor down here and
beat him?"
The gray-haired detective kept plucking at
Dorn's coat.
"Miller, answer me backslash was
Miller straightened up. He'd bloodied his fingers
trying to get a look at Dorn's wound. He
wiped his hands on his trousers. His reply was what
Jephtha expected:
The Titans197
"Tarns. He said Lamont could probably tell
us whether there's a Southern spy ring operating here
in-was
"He didn't have to hammer a man half to death
to get that information. Any half-wit would guess it
We know there are Southern sympathizers all over
town." Red-faced, he jerked Miller by the
shoulders. "But we have no orders to do anything about
it-except observe. You knew that!"
Miserable, Miller nodded.
Pinkerton let go of him. Sighed loudly. "It's
my fault. I know the way Dorn operates. I
should have kept him outside. By God, if he
recovers, I'll see he never works again. Not for
any police department or railroad force in the
whole damn country!"
After a minute, Pinkerton got control of his
temper. Turned to Jephtha, who had sat down on
a trunk. He was feeling better, though he'd have
welcomed a glass of whiskey to numb the pain.
"How did you get involved in this?" Pinkerton
asked him.
"You know I-was Jephtha wiped his damp forehead.
"I was in the audience. I saw Dorn and Miller
hustle Lamont off stage. Pretending they were going
to protect him. Knowing Dorn, I-let's say I
had some doubts about his sincerity. I may not like
Southern politics, Pinker-Major--but I made
it clear to you earlier that I like police bullying even
less. What you permitted tonight was one hundred
percent illegal."
Again Pinkerton's face reddened above his beard.
"I did not permit it If I'd known about it,
I'd have put a stop to it."
Jephtha shrugged. "I said you should be inside the
theater."
"Yes, I remember," Pinkerton muttered.
"Still-I can't fathom why you risked your neck. Why
didn't you fetch me instead?"
Jephtha answered quickly: There was no time. I
198The Detectives
thought Lamont might be dead before I got to him.
Dead, or spirited out the back way."
"There's no connection between you and Lamont except
your feelings about Dorn?"
Jephtha hesitated; decided:
"Yes, but it's personal, not political. That's
all I'm going to say about it."
"That's plenty!" Miller exclaimed. "Chief,
he probably is mixed up with the secesh crowd!"
"Shut your mouth. Kent's no more of a secessionist
than Abe Lincoln. If he says the connection's
personal, I'll take his word."
Miller started to protest
"I said drop it. Mr. Kent happens to be a
reporter for the New York Union"
Miller understood instantly. "Oh, Jesus."
"Exactly what went on down here?" Pinkerton
said to Jephtha.
"After- A deep breath, "comaf I bluffed Mr.
Miller into thinking I worked for you, I tried to stop
Dorn from beating Lamont. Dorn came at me
with a knife and those knuckle-dusters lying there. I
think he meant to kill me." Jephtha's mouth
quirked, but it was hardly a smile. "I didn't
stop to inquire. I shot him instead."
His mind raced ahead to the question of how to get Lamont
away. In a bland tone, he added:
"I'll be glad to report the whole story to a
magistrate if you feel-was
"No!" Pinkerton said.
"I'll certainly put it in my next dispatch
to New York. Unless-was
The pause suggested a possible bargain. Pinkerton
was quick to respond:
"Unless what?"
"Unless you'd prefer to hush up the whole matter."
"You know I would."
The Titans199
'Then have Mr. Miller call a hack. Oh,
yes-and try to find some ammonia salts upstairs.
If we can wake Lamont and take him out thrdugh
the alley without attracting attention I'll see that
he gets back to his wif- his hotel. He's
staying at the National."
"That's right around the block."
"Thaf s right, Mr. Miller. But I doubt we
could protect the major's reputation-or keep his
presence in Washington a secret for very long-if I
walked Lamont to the hotel in the condition he's
in. There'd be too many questions."
Pinkerton nodded: "There are still people all over the
place outside."
"Then my solution's the best one, Major. You
help me get him out and I'll forget I met you
or Mr. Dorn."
Pinkerton chewed his lip. "No dispatches?"
"None."
"Can I rely on your word?"
"Do you have any other choice?"
"No."
"Of course I'd like to know who you're working for-was
"That has no part in any bargain we make!"
"I suppose not. I'd still suggest you get out of
town and take your agents with you. Even if the man for
whom you're doing these little favors is in the cabinet,
it can't help your career-or his-if you're found out
The longer you stay, the greater the risk that you will be found
out. Even if I keep quiet"
After a moment Pinkerton said softly, "I
agree." He glanced sharply at Jephtha. "You
really must have a powerful reason for wanting to help
Lamont"
"I do." It unsettled him to realize he might be
facing his former wife within a very short time. He felt
the old hatred stir-and fought it down.
He noticed Lamont sitting up straighter.
Blinking as if trying to clear his head. He pointed:
200The Detectives
"We'd better look after him. Are we agreed?"
"We are," Pinkerton said. "Miller will drive the
hack and see you make it safely through the back
door of the National."
"Lamont should be seen by a doctor."
I'll hire a nigger boy in the street to find one.
IT send the doctor to the hotel. Miller, get
going! And don't say one unnecessary word if "you want
to keep working for me."
StiDo stunned by the bargain, Miller left, shutting
the door behind him.
Jephtha walked to one of the costume racks-each
step was a little easier now-and drew down a dress
shirt. He carried the shirt to the chair where the
groggy actor was tied.
"Lamont?"
The brown eyes flickered open. "Which-what?"
"I've made arrangements to take you back to your
hotel."
"Thank-was Lamont's tongue crawled across his
cracked lower lip. "Thank you."
"I've got to clean you up so we can leave
the theater without arousing too much curiosity. This may
hurt."
"Go-ahead."
He winced as Jephtha began to sponge away the
blood and mucus on his face. But he made no
sound.
Miller returned with a bottle of ammonia salts
from one of the dressing rooms. "The coppers cleared the
theater," he reported.
"Backstage too?" Pinkerton asked.
"Yes. There are some men in the alley-w
"How many?"
"Eight or ten. About half of em are niggers."
"The hack's on the way?"
"It'll be here any minute."
Jephtha unstoppered the ammonia bottle. He
passed
The Titans201
it back and forth under Lamont's nose. The
actor's head jerked. He snorted, then coughed
violently. Jephtha slapped his back. The coughing
subsided.
Jephtha untied the knots in the rope. He and
Miller lifted the actor to his feet. Allan
Pinkerton darted into the corridor and
walked rapidly toward the stairs, his footsteps
echoing. Jephtha could have embroiled Pinkerton in a
scandal and the detective knew it. He was
ambitious-probably the main reason Jephtha's
suggested trade-off had been accepted. He'd
soon know whether the next step of his scheme would be
equally successful.
"Hold him, Miller-was
"I've got him."
Jephftia took Lamont's other arm. The
actor groaned as they helped him along the dim
hall to the stairway.
The hackney began to roll. Outside, the alley
loungers shouted questions at the mysterious bearded
gentleman who had taken charge of loading the
carriage. Through the window, Jephtha watched
Pinkerton move away from the men and disappear in the
dark.
Miller obeyed Jephtha's orders and drove
slowly. Even so, the tide would take only a few
minutes. The prospect of seeing Fan made
Jephtha increasingly nervous. He was afraid of
rejection; worried that his temper might betray him-
On the seat facing him, Lamont clung to the wall
strap. Though his face was reasonably
clean, he looked bleary and sick. Jephtha
passed the salts bottle back and forth under his
nose.
202The Detectives
Lamont's eyes watered. He drew several
deep breaths. The hack turned out of the alley. The
actor's face was alternately patterned
by gaslight and shadow.
"Feeling any better, Lamont?"
"Some. You have me at a disadvantage. I don't
know who you are."
"Not one of your crowd, you can count on that. Let's just
say I don't like thug tactics."
"Yes, but-was Lamont grimaced. "comI'd like
to thank you by name."
A moment's silence.
"My name is Kent. Jephtha Kent."
Lamont's eyes opened wide. Jephtha thought the
actor might faint. He didn't. But his mouth
hung open a good ten seconds before he spoke.
"Not Fan's-?"
"Yes. I'm no particular friend of yours. But I
couldn't stand by and see you killed just for speaking your
mind."
Especially when helping you promised to get
me where I want to go.
A puzzling thing happened then. Lamont lost his
stupefied look-and smiled.
"Kent," he murmured. "Right like that-was A
gesture. "Just when I-was A chuckle.
"Remarkable."
The smile and the curious words bothered Jephtha.
If his position and Lamont's had been
reversed-if he'd been-the one encountering Fan's first
husband-he doubted he'd have been amused, no
matter how much the other fellow had helped him.
The light of a saloon washed the interior of the hack.
Lamont's face was visible for a moment. He was
studying Jephtha.
"Well, Kent, considering my marital status and
your politics, what you did was certainly damned
decent." He rubbed his curly brown hair. "That
bull-shouldered
The Titans203
young man worked me over nicely. What happened
to him? I was pretty foggy at the time-was
"I got him away from you."
"Do you know who he was?"
Carefully, Jephtha said, "Just someone who didn't
care for your choice of music, I
expect."
"I vaguely remember a gray-haired chap.
And a fellow with a beard-was
"Acquaintances of the man who beat you. They helped
me calm him down."
"Devil of a lot of noise, as I recall. A
shot or two. It's all damned confused-was
Jephtha kept quiet. Lamont sighed; appeared
to relax:
"Well, I owe you a great many thanks. All
differences aside, let me offer them. Sincerely."
He extended his hand. Jephtha shook it.
Despite what he'd been through. Lamont's grip
was strong. His expression was cordial. Yet at that
very moment, Jephtha had the feeling Lamont had
begun to-
What was the right word for it?
To pretend.
To art.
Jephtha admitted to himself that it was irrational for an
offer of thanks to arouse suspicion. Yet he was
suspicious. He couldn't shake off the conviction that
the thanks were insincere.
Lamont's lids drooped as if he were drowsing.
Again the exterior circumstances were at odds
with Jephtha's thoughts:
He's alert. Alert and on edge-
Why?
Because Fan was my wife?
No she's his wife now. I'm no threat to him.
Then why is he tense-and acting as if he isn't?
Or is it all my imagination? Because I'm the one
who's uneasy-his
204The Detectives
The unanswered questions only heightened his nervousness as
the hack creaked and lurched through the rutted street,
bringing him steadily closer to the National Hotel.
CHAPTER VH
O Absalom!
THE BACK DOOR OF THE National was well known
to Jephtha Kent The door, and ones like it in other
hotels, helped the capital conduct its private
business. Jephtha had long ago learned that ten
minutes loitering in an alley could produce more
news about who was seeing whom than hours spent wandering
through the departmental buildings.
He helped Lamont from the carriage and through the
door. An elderly black porter dozing on a
stool roused and gaped at Lamont's battered
face:
"Mr. Kent, that's one of our guests!"
"You're right, Hiram." The stooped Negro shook
his head in amazement.
"Lamont, are you certain you can walk?"
The actor's skin was still as pale as parchment,
Just-let me have your arm." He took hold.
Jephtha turned to the porter. "I'd appreciate
it if you didn't tell anyone you saw us come in."
To Miller, who was standing in the doorway: "Tip him
a dollar. Major Allen won't miss the
money."
Scowling, Miller dug in his pocket and paid.
Hiram grinned. Jephtha knew the porter could have
been well off if he'd saved every tip he received from
a backstairs visitor. But Miller's dollar
would go where the rest of the tips went-to support
Hiram's church. The porter was the ordained pastor
of a small congregation of the forty-five-year-old
African Methodist Episcopal
206O Absalom!
denomination. He worked at the National six days a
week, and on Sunday occupied the pulpit of a
cheaply built but scrupulously maintained frame
sanctuary in Negro Hill.
Miller went out to the hack as Hiram
closed the alley door. Jephtha and Lamont
started slowly up the dim back staircase. After just
a few steps, Lamont was breathing hard. So was
Jephtha. He was feeling his age and the after-effects
of the fight with Dorn.
Lamont clung to his arm as the two men
negotiated the hundred and eighty degree turn
at the first landing. Jephtha decided his suspicions
in the hack had been imagination after all. Lamont
had behaved oddly because he'd been badly beaten.
Jephtha reached that conclusion because he felt none too
clear-headed himself.
They stopped by the door to the second floor
corridor. "What's your room number?"
"Three-o-six."
"Just one more flight"
"I can make it," Lamont assured him.
On the third floor Lamont let go of his arm
while Jephtha eased the door open and studied the
hallway. Empty. He motioned Lamont forward.
The actor took a step and started to fall.
Jephtha grabbed him in time. Lamont reddened,
mumbling an apology. They walked slowly along
the gas-lit corridor.
"Got to say it again, Kent. This
is-damned white of you. Got to. do something to pay
you back for-was
"Here's the room," Jephtha interrupted. There was
a tight feeling across his chest. He almost wished
he'd left the Sharps at the theater-
Don't think that way. Think of why you're here.
To learn about your sons. You can't do it unless you
hold your temper!
He knocked. Heard footsteps. Then a voice
that
The Titans207
made him catch his breath; it sounded exactly as he
remembered it:
"Edward?"
Still laboring for breath, Lamont couldn't reply.
"Edward? Are you there?"
"With a friend," Jephtha said.
He heard her stunned intake of breath. He could
imagine the incredulous look in her slanted
gray-green eyes.
The wait seemed interminable. At last the bolt
rattled. The door opened. White-faced, Fan
clutched at the bosom of her velvet robe.
"I thought it was your voice. But I couldn't
believe-was Her eyes moved to her husband.
"Oh, dear God! Edward -I"
"He's all right. Help me get him inside."
She stared at Jephtha, numb and motionless.
"I tell you he's all right! We just need to put
him to bed-was
Lamont gasped for air. He grabbed Jephtha with
both hands, obviously dizzy. Fan's eyes
grew ugly:
"Who hurt him? You?"
Caught in the awkward position of trying to support
the actor in the doorway, Jephtha's reason
deserted him. Except for the burden of Lamont,
he would have struck her-
Stupid bitch!
But he didn't say it aloud. At the end of the
sleepless night spent reading the Testament, he'd
vowed he wouldn't let years of accumulated hatred
drive him to one more act he'd regret. He tried
to remember Fan was confused and terrified.
"Don't be a damn fool," he said. "If you
aren't going to help, at least move out of the way."
She stepped back. Bearing most of Lamont's
weight on his forearms, he dragged the actor into the
suite's gas-lit parlor. He saw no one besides
Fan.
208O Absalom!
She had sufficient presence of mind to close and
"bolt the door. Point- "In there."
But her eyes were riveted on her husband's bruised
face. Jephtha breathed loudly from the effort
to support Lamont The actor was nearly
unconscious again. He- muttered. Spittle
drooled from one corner of his mouth. "What-what
happened to him, Jephtha?" "I'll tell you after
we take care of him. Hurry, will you please?"
She rushed into the bedroom, folded the coverlet
back and lit the gas as Jephtha hauled Lamont
to the bed and lowered him. Lamont groaned; arched his
back. Pain wrenched his face.
Jephtha smelled the linen. Fresh; clean- The
conjugal bed.
He fought away the shameful images of Fan and the
actor that filled his mind.
He lifted Lamont's legs. Fan arranged the
pillows. Her movements had a jerky quality.
She wouldn't look at him.
Jephtha eased Lamont's head down. The actor
sighed. He knew he was safe. His eyes opened
again. He searched for Jephtha. "Kent? Got
to-make sure you know-how much I
appreciate-appreciate-was It trailed off to a
mumble. "Fetch some whiskey if you have any,"
Jephtha said to Fan.
She disappeared into the parlor. He heard a
decanter clink against a glass. Gingerly, he sat
on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. Fan
returned. The anger that had burst loose when she
accused him was gone. He was able to face her
calmly.
Her face was thinner than he remembered. Drawn.
He saw a few gray hairs among the fair
ones. As she poured the strong-smelling liquor, she
spilled some on her robe.
The Titans209
"I was at the theater," Jenhtha began to explain as
she handed him the glass. "I went on behalf of-just
a minute. Lamont? Can you hear me?" He
gently raised the actor's head with one hand.
"Drink this."
He managed to get most of the whiskey
into Lamont's mouth. The actor swallowed
rapidly. Jeohtha passed the empty glass
to Fan and lowered Lamont's head to the pillow. When
he pulled his left hand away, he noticed his
fingertips bore faint stains. Something in
him took pleasure in realizing Lamont dyed his
hair.
Conscious of Fan waiting for the rest of the explanation,
he resumed:
"I went to Canterbury Hall to get a story for the
paper. I'd heard there might be trouble."
"I knew Edward was involved in something. But he
wouldn't give me any particulars. Or allow me
to go the performance-was
"He was smart. Actually, all he did was ask the
Southerners in the hall to stand and sing 'Dixie's
Land." Rowdies from the other side started to tear the
place apart. A couple of them dragged him to the
basement of the theater to teach him a lesson, but some
friends and I got him away before he was hurt too
badly."
Fan relaxed a little. "I thank you for that,
Jephtha. Of course, I knew you were in
Washington-was
He couldn't keep bitterness from his voice:
"And I'm sure you're astonished I helped him
at all."
Softly: "Yes."
"I didn't do it entirely to be a good
Samaritan. I had another reason.
I'll tell you about it in the parlor."
He stood up. Lamont was asleep, his face
smooth, his breathing regular. Fan's eyes kept
moving back to his face.
"I think he looks worse than he feels,"
Jephtha said. "But there's a doctor coming just to make
certain."
"You say he sang Dixie's Land"--?"
210O Absalom!
Jephtha nodded, angered again by the pride that showed in
her eyes. Then a new thought jolted her:
"Will the police arrest him for-?"
"I doubt it. Singing has yet to be declared an act
of treason. Don't worry yourself." Without thinking,
he touched her arm.
The familiarity made her draw away. He took
the glass and decanter from her hands and deposited them
on the bedside table. As they started for the parlor, he
added:
"When he wakes up, I'd advise you to keep him
indoors a day or so. He won't be the most
popular fellow in town."
"It'll be difficult for me to dictate to Edward,"
she said. Jephtha closed the bedroom door. On
the parlor's far side, he saw another.
were the boys sleeping in there?
He realized Fan was still speaking:
"comhe's quite fervent about the cause. So am I."
An awkward pause. This was very hard. How did you
speak to a woman with whom you'd lived for the better part
of a decade-and from whom you'd parted as an enemy? He
caught himself glancing at her robe; remembering the
contours of her body on their wedding night. He
remembered the way her eyes had shone with joy during
the ceremony. He had been equally joyful.
He thought of quiet breakfasts together, before Gideon
was born. The feel of her sleeping close to him
during chilly autumn nights. He recalled her
struggle to overcome her loathing for the sex act in
order to conceive the children they both wanted.
Sinking down into a chair-he was still stiff and pain-
ridden-he felt sad and empty. He was flawed; so
was she. They had both lost much that was good.
But what should he say to her? He was uncertain.
Fan paced, equally uncomfortable. She kept
glancing
The Titans211
at Lamont's door. Do anything you can to make this
less difficult, he thought. She deserves it.
He chose his words with care:
"I can understand your comment about restraining your husband.
His courage is obvious. Unfortunately, he
almost got himself killed because of it."
Fan stared at him. "That was the case when you helped
papa's black wench escape."
No, Jephtha prayed. Not the past. He made
an effort to shrug off the remark:
"Well, I'm not quite so zealous any longer. I still
believe slavery's wrong. And secession. But-was
He tried to smile. "comrm somewhat less fierce in
other ways."
Liar. Last night you were still thinking of hurting her.
Even a few minutes ago, you hated her as much as
ever-
But he concealed that truth, working to put her at ease:
"I'm not sure why it's happened. Maybe age
has worn me away like water wears away a
stone." Another tentative smile at his own
expense. "I'm not exactly young any longer."
She sat down on the settee in the window bay, her
shoulders drooping.
"I'm not either, Jephtha. I-I must say you're
looking quite fit."
"Thank you. So are you."
"Working for the family paper apparently
agrees with you."
He shrugged again; leaned back. He was tired, and
wanted to get on to the central question. But something warned
Hun to go slowly:
"Let's say I've learned how to handle the job.
I've picked up some bad habits that go with it.
Cigars. Alcohol-was
"And a touch of swearing." It wasn't said unkindly.
212O Absalom!
"Everything changes. What a person does. How
he feels-was He was testing her.
Thankfully, he heard her murmur, "Yes.
I-was She leaned forward. "I really am grateful
to you. More grateful than I can say. I know how you
feel about Edward's beliefs, and mine. What you
did this evening- well, it brings back memories.
Memories that make me feel extremely
guilty."
"Fan, that wasn't the purpose of my helping-was
"I realize," she broke in. "Still, I can't
help thinking of things I said in Lexington. I
don't feel any less strongly about the-the
differences that separated us. But if it's any
consolation-was
He saw the pain this cost her. His heart
softened. He wanted to cross and sit beside her; comfort
her. But it would be improper. She was another man's
wife. He stayed where he was and let her finish:
"comwhat you did for Edward makes me quite ashamed of-of
some events in the past."
"Oh-was He looked rueful. "I expect it was
inevitable that we'd separate. We only did in
our marriage what the country took a bit longer
to do."
"I'm particularly ashamed-was
"Fan, there's no need for this. Lexington's gone.
We're different people."
She shook her head, defiantly; an echo of the
stormy days they'd suffered. "You must let me
finish. I was cruel. Especially in the things I
said about you and your
cousin."
"Amanda?"
"Yes. Accusing the two of you of trying to cheat the
boys."
For a moment, suspicion deviled him again. Was she
sincere-or only trying to find out if her sons were still
wealthy?
He was chagrined by the thought. Hadn't he himself schemed
deviously, just to gain entrance to this parlor
The Titans213
where two strangers sat with their memories and old
hurts?
"comI regret those accusations very much, Jephtha."
He was reassured. "You know I'd never deny my
sons what's theirs."
"I've come to realize that."
"Each one of them will get a substantial inheritance
when I die. In fact, I've finally written a
will to insure it. And I haven't touched a penny of the
income from California. Nor the profits from its
investment."
Now they were closer to the reason he was here; so
close, he started breathing a little faster. Fan
smiled in a wry way:
"Edward, I'm sorry to say, suspects just the
opposite. Only yesterday, he wondered whether
you'd cut the boys off. I don't know whether you'll
believe me, but I told him I was sure you
wouldn't. I told him I was wrong in Lexington.
I said you were a fair, decent man-was
The gas shone on her carefully combed hair. He
noticed more gray. "That was generous of you. But don't
paint me as a saint. Tonight, I-was Tension curled
his fingers against his palms. "comI also helped
your husband because of the boys."
She frowned. "I don't understand."
"When I saw Lamont's name in the Star, I
assumed you might be with him. But I didn't know
whether you'd receive me. Or even speak to me-was
A sad smile. "I can appreciate why you'd
think that."
"comand although it's true I wanted to stop the Pinker-the
Yankee thugs at the theater, I also believed that
if I did it, you'd be-more inclined to give me a
few minutes. To tell me-was
He couldn't hold it back:
"Fan, are the boys well? Are they here?"
"They're all quite well."
214O Absalom!
He squeezed his eyes shut, startled by the feel of
tears.
"Only Jeremiah is here, though. He's sleeping
in the other bedroom."
"I'm surprised he didn't wake up when I
came in."
"You really didn't make much noise. And young
boys sleep very soundly. I sometimes think a
fourteen year old could sleep through the last
judgment."
He shook his head. "Fourteen. I've gotten
confused. I'd have sworn Jeremiah was fifteen."
"No, he was born in June, remember?"
Jephtha's pale eyes glistened. "Yes, I
do."
A rap on the hall door brought Fan to her
feet. "Probably the doctor," Jephtha said.
"But I'd better make sure."
He drew the pepperbox from his pocket, noticing
her startled expression. He checked the revolving
hammer nose to be certain it was in position to fire
again, palmed the weapon and walked to the door.
"Who's there?"
A grumbly voice replied, "Doctor
Butterfield."
Jephtha slipped the bolt to admit a
white-haired, baggy-eyed fellow with a satchel.
Judging by the smell, Dr. Butterfield had been
summoned from a conference with a bottle. He nearly
tripped as he entered.
While Jephtha rebolted the door,
Butterfield said, "Something about an actor getting
hurt-was He squinted at Jephtha. "You the
actor?"
"He's in the bedroom."
"Sorry. Can't tell who's who these days.
President looks like a farmer. General of the army
looks like a pig with the bloat."
"It's the lady's husband," Jephtha advised
him. "He was beaten severely at Canterbury
Hall."
"Oh! That secesh fracas. Heard about it while
I was drink-uh, before I was called."
"I don't think he's badly injured. But we'd
like you to
The Titans215
verify it." Jephtha opened the bedroom door.
Lamont lay on his side. He breathed with his mouth
open, a raspv sound.
"Fee's one dollar." Butterfield stopped.
"In advance."
"I have it, Fan-was
Deftly, Jephtha hid the Sharps in his pocket
and hunted for a gold piece while Butterfield
peered in at the patient. As Jephtha paid the fee,
he noticed the doctor shift his attention to the
whiskey decanter beside the bed.
"Thank you," Butterfield said, stifling a slight
burp. He smoothed his lapel, a futile
gesture to give himself a more professional
appearance. It was impossible.
"A dollar for night calls, you understand-was he
began, taking a step and tripping over the edge of the
bedroom carpet. Somewhat sententiously, he said,
"I'll report shortly." He closed the door
in Jephtha's face.
Fan paced again. "I hope he's competent."
"I suppose we have to take the luck of the pot this
time of night. Fan-was
"Yes?"
He went to her. Even grew bold enough to clasp his
hands over hers. They were cold.
"Tell me about the boys."
"Well, let me see-was Self-conscious, she
withdrew her hands. "Gideon's in Virginia. He
went to Richmond to try to enlist in a military
unit." Jephtha was overjoyed at the nearness of his
eldest son, but alarmed at the thought of the boy having
committed himself to the war so soon.
"He wants to join a cavalry troop," Fan
continued. "Gideon started to ride when he was
twelve. He's become very accomplished on
Papa's horses. I understand volunteers must
supply their own mounts. I'm sure Papa will
give him one."
216O Absalom!
Jephtha forced himself to ask, "How is Captain.
Tun- worth?"
"Not in good health. But he's glad the war has
finally
come."
Old men are always glad young men will fight for them,
Jephtha thought
"Are you glad?"
She looked straight into his eyes and he felt
something akin to the old affection they'd shared.
"I don't know how to answer that, Jephtha."
"Why not? It's a simple question."
"No, it isn't. I think the South's been abused
far too long. I believe in the doctrine of state
sovereignty. The Union was freely created
by separate states, and it can be dissolved just as
freely. However, Mr. Lincoln's decided the
question can only be settled on a battlefield."
"Sumter decided it, Fan."
"You may be right." She brushed at her forehead.
"But no matter what the principles are, I'm not
glad at all. I don't want anything to happen
to my-to our
sons."
Again that small, weary smile. "Gideon's a
lot like you. He's as enthusiastic about his cause as
you are-was
"Were."
"comab yours."
"Eager to fight?"
"V. The moment he can find a horse troop that'll
take him, he'll be coming back to say goodbye."
"Back here?" Jephtha couldn't keep elation from his
voice. "How soon do you think that'll be?"
"In a few days I should imagine. He's a
marvelous boy, Jephtha. Big. Good-looking-and
he loves to sing. He has a very appealing voice.
Of the three of them, he's also the one with the hottest
temper." She twitted him gently: "I expect
you're responsible. There was that Virginia grandmother of
yours, on your., father's side-was
The Titans217
"Elizabeth Fletcher. Elizabeth Kent," he
amended.
"You always spoke of some strain she'd brought into the
family-the Fletcher blood, wasn't that the name?
Those who inherited it were always a little headstrong, you
said. Even rebellious. I noticed it in you. I
certainly see it in Gideon."
Jephtha pondered a moment. "I don't know how
long the bridges to Virginia will be open. But if
Gideon can get back, I'd like to see him."
"Of course."
He wanted to whoop and hug her. "What about
Matthew? Is he here?"
She frowned, returning to the settee. "Matt's
been a problem."
"How so?"
"He's even less of a scholar than Gideon.
Fve tried to teach the boys mathematics and science
and some literature while they traveled with us. But
Matthew simply balked at schooling. Two years
ago Edward and I were at a loss to know what to do.
We finally gave him permission to try something he said
appealed to him."
"What?"
"He's a seaman. Well, actually a mess
boy. On a Charleston cotton packet called
the Prince of Carolina."
"Good God! I'd never have imagined he'd like that
sort of life."
"I think he just wanted to get away. I worry
about him among all those foul-talking sailors. But
he is almost seventeen. And he sounds
happy. Here-was
Moving to a secretary, she produced two folded
sheets.
"This is his last letter. Written a week ago, from
New Orleans."
Jephtha took the sheets. The handwriting was clear
and bold. "At least his penmanship's passable."
"More than that. He lettered a card for my birthday
218O Absalom!
that was positively beautiful. In the letter, you'll come
across a reference to sketches-was "He draws?"
"Quite well. He's completely self-taught."
"He certainly doesn't get the ability from me."
Fan shared his smile. "Nor me. Sometimes I
suppose talent just-appears in a person. I'll
show you two samples of his work when you've finished
reading."
The letter was addressed to Dear Mama and Edward.
Jephtha experienced another moment of malicious
pleasure because his son hadn't referred to Lamont as
father. He read on:
We are docked in New Orlens, which is a prety
town and full of nigras and prety dark-skinned
girls, Creols the captain calls them. I
enjoy looking at them and sketching them but have
not met any personty, I supose I am too
young.
"You're right, he's no student," Jephtha
smiled. "I've never seen such spelling and
punctuation." Fan laughed. "More a lack of it,
I'd say." greater-than was
Mama I know you have urged me to atend worship but
we are busy putting on a new load of cotton
and admiring those Creol girls and that leaves me very
little time to draw so all I have done is visit a
Cathedral which is very famus in town and catholic and
very old but full of lovely figures of church
persons, really very pretty. All hands are happy
with Capt. McGill, he makes us work like
devils but to a purpose, we have a trim vesel and
always offers of more cargo than we can carry. The
captain does not talk much with the crew, he is stern
I guess you would say. When not on deck he is in
his cabin playing a mouth organ, music is something
he loves very much. He has
The Utans219
been kind to me though, asked me many questions about our
family even the Kents in the north, I have a
feeling he hates the idea of war thinks it is
mad. I cant explain why he seems
to be easy with me when I make mistakes but he
is. I don't think he would have let anyone else
draw him though I may just be showing off my own
feathers saying that.
There is a lot of talk of war here they write out the
news from Montgomry on boards in front of the
newspaper ofices, also many pictures of Mr.
Davis are displayed. They talk of a new flag and
every- ones whistling or humming "Dixie's
Land"-well that is all my news except to say
I have put in two drawings I hope you will like, I
have saved the ones of Creol girls for when I get
lonesome at sea. I will write again when we make
port in Charleston
Your loving son, Matthew.
"Thank you for letting me read it." Jephtha handed
the letter back, musing: "McGill-McGill-I
remember! I knew it had a familiar sound. When
I arrived in New York, they told me a
clipper captain named McGill attended
Amanda's funeral."
"Was he a Southerner?"
"I don't recall."
"I wonder if it could be the same man."
"You saw the reference to questions about the
family. It might be."
"Then I'd feel a little less apprehensive.
Here-I want you to see the sketches-was
Jephtha examined the charcoal drawings of the dock
workers and Matthew's skipper. "Fan, the boy has
remarkable talent."
"He does. But he's too carefree."
220O Absaloml
"He's young yet."
"I think he'll be the same way all his life.
He's not interested in anything that can lead to a proper
career."
"As long as he's content, does it matter?"
"No, I imagine not. With that Fletcher blood,
he's very likely to do as he pleases regardless of
what anyone says."
"Oh, how I'd love to see him!"
Jephtha laid the sketches aside, his eye
drawn toward the door of the other bedroom. "And
Jeremiah-?"
She held out her hand. "Come."
Her smile and the outstretched hand made Jephtha
ashamed of all the hate he'd harbored;, ashamed
too of the cruel faultiness of his own thinking. The
passage of time had changed him. But he'd
never granted that it could do the same for Fan. He
took her hand.
She opened the bedroom door quietly. Whispered:
"I'll wake him if you wish."
He almost said yes. Then he shook his head:
"It might startle him too much. I mean, being
roused and confronted by a father he hasn't seen in
years. I doubt if he remembers me well.
He was only six or so when I left Lexington.
Perhaps you can tell him I was here. I'll speak to him
when I meet Gideon. I'll go in for a moment,
if I may-was
"He's your son, too, Jephtha."
She stood aside.

Fan left the door halfway open. The parlor
gaslight spread dimly across Jeremiah's bed.
Fearing he'd wake his son-and fearful of his own
emotions as well-Jephtha stole to the bedside and
gazed down at the stocky, ruddy-cheeked boy
breathing slowly in deep slumber.
The Titans221
One of Jeremiah's hands rested on top of the
cover. Jephtha knelt. He stretched out his right
hand, mingled love and pain welling within him.
Jeremiah stirred. Turned his head on the pillow.
Spoke a few muffled syllables.
When he was quiet again, Jephtha touched his hand and
cried silently, without shame.
in
He cried from the profound and wondrous joy of touching
one of his three earthly links with immortality; one
of his three triumphs over the death that waited for every
human being.
Then, like an ugly intruder, came the thought that
Jeremiah was, in a way, forever lost to him. He
could taste the salt of his own tears as he grieved
over the unbridgeable chasm created by the past; by his
own fanaticism, and Fan's.
He remembered a passage from II Samuel.
His lips formed silent words of love and loss; the
words of David-
was "O Absalom, my son, my son?
Slowly, he bent forward. Jeremiah's hand
smelled of soap. Jephtha put his lips against the
warm skin; the gentlest of kisses.
Restless, the boy moved again. Jephtha rose
quickly. He backed toward the door and Fan's
waiting shadow. When he emerged, she was stricken
silent by the glow of his smile and the pain in his
eyes.
"He-he's turned into a fine-looking young man,
he-was
The door of the other bedroom opened. Doctor But-
terfield lurched out, fumbling with the clasp of his
satchel. Jephtha spun and walked to the window
bay,
222O Absalom!
facing the dark outside so the doctor couldn't see his
tears.
friend
"comnothing broken that I can detect," Butterfield
said. "Swabbed his face clean. Also dressed the
worst cut and gave him a drop of a tincture
to help him sleep. He'll be up and about tomorrow.
Sore as hell, though. Poor fellow took quite a
pounding. Would you-ah- care to have me drop back and
examine him in the afternoon?"
"Yes, I'd appreciate it," Fan said.
Jephtha sniffed. The doctor smelled like a
distillery. During the examination, the doctor had
evidently sharpened his diagnostic skills with the aid
of the bedside decanter.
"Happy to-happy!" Butterfield weaved toward
the door. "Physician's sacred duty
to look after his patients! Shall we say-was Another
belch. "Beg pardon. Four o'clock?"
"Fine."
The hall door closed. A moment later, they
heard a loud thud and an outpouring of curses.
Fan sighed:
"I'm glad we didn't hire him to perform
surgery."
Though Jephtha smiled, he felt sorry for the
shabby doctor. A man haunted. But then, what
man or woman wasn't?
"I expect I'd better be going too-was he
began.
"I thank you again for your help and compassion."
"And I thank you for letting me see Jeremiah.
For telling me about Gideon, and Matt."
"When we were back in Lexington--"
"Fan, no more. That's over."
"I have to say this to you. So it'll be off my conscience.
You know I thought you were a bad influence-was
The Titans223
"Satanic!" His smile faded. "I still could be.
I told you I haven't changed my views-was
"Yes, but you're-you're not wicked, and I claimed
you were. I'd never deny you the right to see the
boys."
Despite his intentions, remembered wrath got the
better of him:
"I'll admit it wasn't pleasant when you
refused to answer my letters asking about them."
"Edward and I-that is-I accept the
responsibility. Not replying was wrong. What can
I say except I hope you can forgive me?"
"Completely."
"I have changed, Jephtha."
"We both have. That's good."
She couldn't know how fervently he meant those words.
Never again would he have to fear his own anger.
At the door, he said, "You've made me very
happy tonight. So let me offer what I hope is a
helpful word. You and Lamont shouldn't stay in
Washington much longer."
"Because we're Southerners?"
"Zealous ones-and after tonight, notorious ones- why are
you smiling?"
"Because Edward is a zealot. In many ways he
reminds me of you twenty years ago." Softly:
"I sometimes ask myself if that's one reason I
married him-was
She brightened. "In any case, I
appreciate your concern. I'll tell Edward what
you said, though I'm sure he'll want to express
his thanks in person before we go." She thought a
second. "The instant Gideon's back from
Richmond, I'll send you a note."
"Send it to Mrs. Emerson's boarding house. On
G Street. Any of the nigra bootblacks
outside the hotel will know where it is."
"Mrs. Emerson's," Fan repeated. "I'll
remember.
?"
224O Absalom!
"One last word. I-was He conquered his jealously.
"comI'm pleased you've found some happiness."
Surprisingly, she saddened. "There's not much
happiness in thinking of Gideon being drawn into a
war. Even a short one."
"I know. But the Kents have always been somewhat
pig-headed on one point."
"What's that?"
"Living without principles, or refusing to act on
those principles, isn't living, just cowardice. I
loathe the thought of Gideon going to war. I don't
believe in his cause. But his willingness to risk himself
proves he's a Kent. I'm proud of
him. And eternally grateful to you-was
Though he knew he shouldn't, he leaned forward
to kiss Fan's cheek. For a space of seconds,
she pressed her fingertips lightly against his chin.
He drew back. "Good night, Fan."
He hurried down the hall, happy beyond belief.
The Sharps pepperbox in his pocket was forgotten.
So was Edward Lamont's peculiar behavior in the
hack.
He left the National by the main door leading
to Pennsylvania Avenue. In a hurry to reach
G Street, he failed to see the watchers lurking
in front of an unlighted shop a few doors from the
hotel.
A hand caught his arm; whirled him around-
"Hold on, Mister!"
The bile of terror welled in his throat. There were
three of them. One took a firmer grip on
Jephtha's arm. A second shoved the point of a
long Bowie knife against his shirt.
The knife-wielder twisted the handle a quarter
turn. On the blade, Jephtha saw a dark
patch-
Dried blood.
The Titans225
"You got any official business on the streets?"
the man with the knife demanded.
Anger overcame fear. Jephtha wrenched back from
the Bowie:
"Who the hell are you to be asking?"
"Never mind, just answer," said the man all but hidden
in the darkness behind the other two. Jephtha
recognized the voice:
"Moore? Call off these fools! You know me."
Solomon Moore stepped forward. He was a
grizzled Republican from Ohio. He'd come to the
city hoping to find a political appointment.
Jephtha had spoken with him twice at
Willard's.
"Jephtha Kent!" Moore exclaimed. "I
didn't make you out right off-sorry. Ease up,
boys."
The two men accompanying Moore relaxed. One
reached for a cigar. Jephtha thought he spied a
bolstered revolver under the man's coat
"What the devil is this, Moore? Where do you get
off stopping people on Pennsylvania Avenue?"
The man with the Bowie growled, "We belong to the new
Cash Clay battalion. Organized tonight.
We're patrolling the avenue and the side
streets. Senator Lane's Frontier Guards
are watching the grounds of President's Park.
You're still going to explain where you're headed-was
"The hell I am! Moore knows I'm no
secesh."
"For a fact," Moore confirmed. "Put the knife
away, Luther."
Luther didn't respond. Jephtha shuddered. The
Dorns of the world were taking over.
The second man said, "We oughta warn him,
Solo-
mon."
226O Absalom!
"Warn me about what?"
"I just wouldn't traipse around after dark," Moore
said.
Luther said, "We come across a loudmouth from
Alabama half an hour ago. He got feisty.
Wouldn't tell us why he was out."
The second man chuckled. "Now he's walkin"
around with his cock halfway up his bung."
The man with the Bowie licked his thumb and stroked the
dried blood on the blade. "There's boys from the
patrol all over. Next time, Moore might be
blocks away."
"I'll bear that in mind." Jephtha's tone said just
the opposite.
Moore was irked: "If you don't, you're
stupid."
The trio drifted back toward the National.
Jephtha went the opposite way, his ebullient
mood ruined. On both sides, the hatreds were
growing worse and worse-
He thought of the bully with the knife. Of the savagery
of the Canterbury riot. And of the animal that hid
inside every man; even himself.
In wartime, men made allowances. It was permissible
to let the animal out of his pen. And if he maimed-
slew-well, that was acceptable-
So long as he maimed or slew an enemy.
The night's events made Jephtha think more
realistically about his sons. Especially Gideon.
If the war proved to be anything but short and
relatively bloodless, Gideon would face other
young men who had been told, Let the animal
free. It's your sacred duty.
When that happened, Gideon could suffer the fate of the
Biblical Absalom; could die because of his own
dedication; be slain by the beasts a war let loose.
Until now, Jephtha really hadn't
accepted the possibility. At last, he did.
Gideon could die.
The Titans227
If the war was long, Matt could be drawn hi-
Even Jeremiah.
And he might one day find himself repeating the words
he'd whispered in Jeremiah's room, but speaking
them as King David had-over a still body; the flesh
of his flesh.
He walked faster along the deserted avenue, fear
for his sons his sole companion.
vi
In a cramped, untidy boarding house room off
Seventh Street, Josiah Cheever set-to work.
The bolted door protected him from interruption.
An oil lamp illuminated the tiny desk.
Despite his aching ribs-he'd been punched three
times escaping from Canterbury Hall-he smiled as
his pen rasped across the sheet, inscribing the date.
He thought a moment, then wrote:
As you will no doubt read in the Washington
newspapers which I understand reach you regularly via
trusted messengers similar to the one who will deliver
this report, our mutual friend endangered himself and our
larger plan this evening. However, his performance
at C. H. conclusively demonstrated the depth
of his loyalty. I have learned he escaped safely
from C. H. after the melee, though I do not know how.
I was also advised that the object of our common
interest was in the audience. I did not see him-a
fact I regret somewhat. The attendant confusion
might have presented an opportunity for the quick
accomplishment of our objective. There were weapons
in evidence. Many persons were hurt. I myself
narrowly avoided severe injury at the hands of two
228O Absalom!
who disliked the sentiments our mutual friend delivered
from the stage. Given those circumstances, a man
might well have perished without undue notice as
to whether he had been "helped along"
Cheever's upper lip glistened as he read over the
last few words. He pressed his legs together beneath the
desk, feeling an almost sexual excitement. He
inked the pen and continued:
However, I know that if I had acted as suggested
above, our mutual friend would be upset, perhaps to the
point of withdrawing his cooperation. He insists on
proceeding at his own pace, so as not to unduly arouse
his wife's suspicions. He further insists upon
superintending all arrangements; takes a
certain pleasure in it, I suspect. Although the
delay is annoying, I believe we must humor
him, for he is on our side; and invaluable. This is
especially true now that I have at last convinced him
of the realism of our position-viz., that confronted as
we are by the superior manpower and resources of the
enemy, we may not win a war in a matter of weeks
or months; the struggle may be long and-most
important comcostly. Thanks to my efforts, our
mutual friend now shares that view, and is no longer
swayed by the thoughtless fools who claim quick success
is an absolute certainty. I do not mean
to imply that we must not strive for a quick success-or that
it is utterly impossible to achieve. I mean we
must always have an alternate plan. Therefore, we must
continue to allow our mutual friend a certain
latitude. But I can state the following as a
fact. With my assistance and encouragement, he will-
Cheever paused to slash three underscores beneath the
last word.
The Titans229
commake certain "Parson K" departs this earth
accompanied by the everlasting gratitude of all who
serve the cause. On my honor I pledge to you that
the anticipated departure will take place
reasonably soon. At that time we shall reap the
benefits; I trust a righteous God has withdrawn
Heavenly rewards for damn yankees.
The clerk chewed the end of the pen a moment, admiring the
sardonic quality of his phrasing. To heighten the
effect, he added his customary code signature:
Cameron.
He laid the pen aside, rose and took a small
brass key from the pocket of his soiled trousers.
He burrowed in a smelly, two-week-old pile
of laundry in the closet He uncovered a
valise and unlocked it with the key.
From a slit in the valise's lining, he removed a
small book. The cover measured four by two
inches. The book was less than a quarter inch
thick.
With the proper rice paper pages open to the
lamplight, he readied a clean sheet. He
referred to the book frequently as he rewrote the
original message using the correct substitution
cipher for the week. The emerging translation was a
pattern of letter groupings that would make no sense if
the courier to Richmond were captured and the hollow
heel of his farmer's boot discovered.
CHAPTER VIH
The Bait
WHEN JEPHTHA BURST TNTO the
kitchen of the boarding house, Bertha screamed and
dropoed five dinner plates she was pulling from a
tub of rinse water. The black woman's temper
exploded before the shards of china stopped rattling on
the floor:
"Lord God, Mr. Jephtha, you want to give me
a seizure 7 Look what you done!"
"I'll buy a whole new set to replace
"emffM
She squealed as he caught her around the waist,
lifted and whirled her.
"Mr. Jephtha, you put me down! You gone
completely crazy? Miz MollyTl have a
conniption fit when I tell her about the plates!"
"Then don't tell her. I'll slip you the money
for the new ones next time I get paid-was
Breathing hard-he was tired, and Bertha was an
armful-he set the black woman on the floor.
She gasped when he planted a big smacking kiss
on her cheek.
She pursed her lips. "I know you take a drop
now an" then. But I never seen you skunk drunk
before."
"Bertha, I'm not drunk."
"Well, you could fool me."
"Is Molly still up?"
"No. She was worn out from worryin' about you. She
went to bed early."
"Then I'll have to wake her."

The Titans231
He dashed out of the kitchen, leaving Bertha staring after
him in bewilderment.
She kicked at the litter of dish fragments, then
shook her head. Jephtha Kent grinning like a fool
and capering like a schoolboy was just one more symptom of the
craziness infecting Washington City like a disease.
He stole into the dark of Molly's bedroom.
Smelled the familiar, warm scent of her.
Slipped to the edge of the bed and sat down carefully.
He found her temple; brushed his palm across her
unbound hair:
"Molly? Molly, I'm back-was
She sat up with violent suddenness. "Who is it?
Bertha-to "
He pressed a hand over her mouth. "Sssh!
Nobody's come to rob you."
"Jephtha?" Some of the sleepiness was gone
from her voice.
"It's me. Safe and whole. Molly, I saw
her! She's going to let me talk to the boys.
Jeremiah's right in the hotel-he was asleep.
Gideon's in Richmond, hoping to enlist on the
other side. But he'll be back. She's going
to send a note around when he-was
"Jephtha, wait!"
"What?"
"First you wake me up and then you talk so fast I
can't make sense of it-was Molly pressed against his
arm as she sat up straighter. The warm feel of her
soft breast heightened his exhilaration.
"I've been scared to death all day. And it's your
fault."
"Why?"
"Right after you left, I discovered my gun was gone.
232The Bait
I thought-I thought you might be planning to use it
on-was
She stopped.
"On Fan?" He laughed. "Never. I took it
because I thought I should be prepared in case there was a
row at the theater. I should have told you, but I was in a
hurry-was
It was not quite the truth, he admitted to himself. If
things had worked out differently, his anger might have
driven him to use the Sharps to force Fan to-
Don't think that way. You were wrong about her.
"You're damn right you should have told me!" Molly
leaned her cheek against his. "I fretted the whole
day-was More quietly: "You had no trouble with her?"
"None. She's changed, Molly. Mellowed.
Oh, she's still partisan. But we had a cordial
visit-was
He slipped off his coat and let it fall on the
floor, then put his arm around her. "Of course I
paved the way by helping her husband out of a little
scrape. I suppose you heard about what happened
at the Canterbury-?"
He felt her head nod against his stubbled cheek.
He needed to wash up. He felt filthy. The
aches caused by the fight were hurting again.
"One of the boarders-Mr. Fly-was there," she said.
"And white as milk when he got back. He said
he didn't show favoritism to either side. But
someone nearly bashed his head in anyway. I want
you to tell me about it. Right from the beginning."
"Of course. But the most important part relates
to what you said last night. About looking for the
goodness in Fan. It's there, Molly. It's really
there." Tenderly: "You sound as if you're ready
to cry." "Damn near am-was
He sniffed; cleared his throat. Then he
described the evening's events, including the encounter
with Dorn,
The Titans233
though he minimized the severity of the figfct She
reached for the lamp:
"I want to see how badly he hurt you.
Jephtha, let go of my wrist!"
"Molly, I'm fine. Couldn't be better-believe
me."
She stopped struggling. His voice dropped to a near
whisper:
"When I knocked on the door at the National, I
still didn't have much hope. But some things do come out right
after all-was
He finished telling her about the talk with Fan. She
didn't speak immediately. He thumped his boots down
beside the bed, unbuttoned his shirt and trousers and
slid them off. He added his singlet and underdrawers
to the pile and negotiated his way to the washstand. The
water was tepid, but he felt better after scrubbing
and drying his face and hands. As he was
hanging the damp towel on its peg, she said:
"Jephtha?"
"Mmm?"
"I'm thankful you'll get to visit with your boys."
"You? How do you think I feel!"
"I can hear it in your voice. I'm happy for you for
another reason, too. Lately, you haven't seen
much of-was She sounded hesitant. "comof God's
handiwork in anything."
"I know."
Naked, he stretched out beside her, holding back a
groan. He worked his left arm under her shoulder,
kissed her cheek.
"I know," he repeated. "I'd like to think it was
God's work and not just luck." Hugging her, he
pulled up the cover with the other hand. "Whichever it
was, I haven't felt so good in years."
She kissed the corner of his mouth. "With everyone in
Washington so angry and afraid, finding a little
goodness in the world is almost a miracle."
234The Bait
"Yes. And you helped it happen. Without you, I'd
never have been able to go to her. Or keep my temper."
He was troubled that he still wasn't admitting everything.
He remembered his rage over Fan's first
confused accusations about hurting Lamont. But he
didn't mention it, whispering instead:
"I thank you."
"Well-was She was only half teasing. "comsaving a
good man from a bad impulse is more important
than saving string or butcher's paper."
He wrapped her in his arms and drew her tight against
him, reveling in the feel of her supple body and
soft hair against his face. He found her mouth;
kissed her-
Molly murmured. The tension seemed to drain from
her. The lovemaking that followed was a celebration;
an outpouring of their mutual relief and happiness,
and a temporary escape from the anguish of a city and a
land growing darker by the hour.
Afterward, they fell asleep in each other's arms.
m
Next morning-Wednesday-Jephtha rose at
sunup. He ignored Molly's plea that he let
her treat the purpling marks on his face, snatched
a slice of bread for breakfast and went directly
to the Evening Star office. He spent two hours
completing a dispatch describing the riot at
Canterbury Hall, pausing only to light a
cigar, say good morning to the Negro
sweep or fend off sarcastic or bawdy questions about
his distinctly unclerical bruises.
As he was gathering up his copy to take it to the
telegraph office, one of the Star's reporters, a
likable chap named Van Dyne, arrived at his
desk across the aisle.
"Abe's gag order isn't holding fast,
Jephtha." Van
The Titans235
Dyne waggled a fist full of notes. "I've
been to State and War. A few loose tongues are
getting looser."
Jephtha stuffed his dispatch in his pocket. "What have
you got?" He and Van Dyne had shared sources and
information before.
"Yirst, a general impression. The town is
unprotected. Panic's setting in. For
specifics, I picked up these-was He spread the
notes on the desk top. "Snippets of some of the
telegraph messages from governors who said no
to the appeal for troops. Listen to old John
Letcher down in Richmond-was
Van Dyne read aloud:
"Militia of Virginia will not be furnished to the
powers at Washington-so on and so on-your
object is to subjugate the Southern states-so
on-an object, in my judgment, not within the
purview of the Constitution- now here's the gut of it.
You have chosen to inaugurate civil war, and having
done so, we will meet it in a spirit as determined as the
Administration has exhibited toward the South"
Jephtha whistled. "Pretty stiff."
"But predictable. And mild in comparison to some of the
rest-was He picked out another sheet. "Kentucky
will furnish no troops for the wicked purpose of
subduing her sister Southern states."
"Lincoln was hoping Kentucky'd support him."
"Well, Magoffin's a stubborn old bastard.
That's probably his final word. It gets worse.
Here's Isham Harris. Tennessee will not furnish a
single man for purposes of coercion, but fifty
thousand if necessary for the defense of our rights and those of our
Southern brethren. He turned the paper over.
"Governor Jackson of Missouri. Note his
admirable restraint-was He pointed to the phrases
one by one. "Unholy crusade. Illegal,
unconstitutional, and revolutionary in its object,
inhuman and diabolical . . . Oh, yes. One
more-was Van Dyne smiled wearily. "Cannot be
complied with."
236The Bait
Jephtha shook his head. "If Lincoln loses
all the border states, the situation's worse than
ever."
"Correct. I'm beginning to wonder if Abe's as
smart as they say. Maybe he shouldn't have requested
troops from men like Magoffin and Jackson."
"I suppose he was gambling they'd at least stay
neutral."
"If he was, he lost the throw. Virginia's the
key, though. The state everyone's waiting for-was He
spun in his chair and shouted, "Mr. Wallach?
Anything from Dennis in Richmond?"
"Not yet, Mr. Van Dyne." The Star's
editor was a salty, paradoxical little man. He
was a Democrat; strongly sympathetic to the South,
yet insistent on the preservation of the Union. He
added, "Either the secession convention's still sitting, or
the young whelp's malingering in some saloon. Knowing
Mr. Dennis, it could be both."
Jephtha said to Van Dyne, "I talked to your
man who covers the depot. He said there's still no
word on when the Pennsylvania and Massachusetts
troops will
arnve."
"If they don't get here, we're in bad
straits." Van Dyne rubbed his eyes. "I should
have stayed in Louisville. I thought working on a
Washington paper would promote my career. Instead,
I've promoted myself onto a sinking ship. Without
lifeboats." He gathered up his notes and started
to write.
Jephtha set off for the telegraph office in the
glowing sunlight. He wasn't cheered by what he'd
learned from Van Dyne. More and more, Washington
City had the feel of an enclave surrounded
by enemies. Enemies who would strike soon, and
hard.
The Titans237
iv
The city's situation deteriorated even further
during the rest of the day. Jephtha spent the late
morning and early afternoon visiting government departments
in search of usable material. Van Dyne hadn't
exaggerated. The mood was the same everywhere:
anxiety bordering on outright panic.
Talking off the record, a contact at the War
Department spoke of two major dangers. First, for
communication with the rest of the country, Washington was
completely dependent on the telegraph
wires and the single BandO line from Baltimore,
Second, Federal facilities in the area stood
a good chance of being captured if, as reliable
sources said, Virginia militiamen were already
massing in the state capital. Of chief concern were
Fort Monroe guarding the entrance to Chesapeake
Bay; Harper's Ferry with its store of arms and
valuable tools for the manufacture of rifles; and the
huge Cos- port Navy Yard down at
Norfolk. An three were vulnerable to a swift
thrust from Richmond.
Back at the Star in the late afternoon, Jephtha
described the danger in his second dispatch of the day.
While he was writing, a boy brought him a
telegraph message from Theo Payne. The editor
again demanded the Lee interview.
Jephtha threw Payne's message on the floor
and kept writing. Moments later, a reporter
dropped a small envelope on his paper-strewn
desk:
"Nigger kid just delivered this to the front door."
Jephtha laid his pen aside. The envelope was
addressed to Mr. J. Kent, Esq., csto Evening
Star Offices. The handwriting was beautiful but
unmistakably masculine.
238The Bait
He opened the envelope. When he noted the
signature, his brows shot up in surprise.
My dear Kent:
Feeling much better this morning. Thus I am moved
to thank you again for your brave action on my behalf.
Though you and I, of necessity, can never share the
same political views, I respect and
admire your courage. I have been comwishing I could
express my gratitude in a more tangible manner.
A new development suggests that perhaps I can. Although
information I receive from my fellow Southerners is
sketchy in the extreme, one visitor this morning
did offer a tidbit you might find useful. I was
led to understand that when Union troops bound for this city
attempt to pass through Baltimore, certain
combinations of men will make the passage difficult if
not impossible. I have no idea whether the information is
reliable; very possibly not. But if it is reliable,
and circulating to a person such as myself, with no
official connections whatsoever, it is not
precisely secret. Therefore I need not feel
guilty about relaying it to you for your professional
use.
Last evening I saw proof that you are a
man of probity. Therefore, I trust you will not reveal
the source of the above information, but only utilize it as
you see fit.
Tendering once again my most sincere thanks for your
help, I remain
Yours obediently,
Edw. Lamont
Jephtha stared at the large, ostentatious
signature. He tried to detect any hint of
spaciousness in the letter. He couldn't; Washington was
indeed flooded with rumors that the divided citizenry
of Maryland might interfere
The Titans239
with the soldiers headed for the capital. Lamont had
done little more than provide a confirmation-though a
prettv strong one.
The tip might be worth a follow-up. There was one
problem. As he'd told Van Dyne, no one
knew exactly when the relief regiments would be coming
through Baltimore.
He decided to ignore the lead temporarily. He
laid the letter on the desk. It was probably wiser
to stay in Washington than go chasing up
to Baltimore after a story that might or might not
materialize.
On Thursday the mail trains began to run late.
The Star's man assigned to the depot reported
stories of mobs wandering the Baltimore streets
after dark. That same morning, Jephtha learned,
Colonel Lee rode in across Long Bridge,
bound on some mysterious errand.
The clerks and assistant secretaries taking a
late breakfast at Willard's had haggard
faces. In the government offices, the lamps had
burned until sunrise. The pattern would continue,
as more and more men with Southern loyalties resigned their
posts and left shrinking staffs to handle increasingly
heavier work loads.
Defense planning was made more difficult by a lack
of information, weary men complained to Jephtha.
Additional troops were said to be coming from Rhode
Island. The elegant and prestigious Seventh
New York was also on the way.
But when would the troops arrive? Where would they be
housed? How would they be fed? No one seemed to know-
Just as no one seemed prepared to answer the most
crucial question:
Would they come in tinie?
240The Bait
By late afternoon, Jephtha was starved. He
hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. And he was
worn out from rushing between the hotels and President's
Park.
But the effort had finally yielded one piece of
important news. John Nicolay had told
him that, the preceding evening, the Virginia convention had
finally voted eighty-eight to fifty-five in favor
of an ordinance of secession. Governor Letcher
had alerted all of the state's volunteer regiments
to be prepared for immediate service.
Jephtha raced back to the Star to write his copy.
A sense of obligation made him stop at
Wallach's desk and pass along the information.
Instantly, Wallach yelled a stop-press
order.
Reporters streamed toward the editor. Jephtha
repeated his news and Wallach began issuing
assignments. Men ran for the door. Others dashed for
pens and copy paper. In the pandemonium, Jephtha
went to his own desk, where he discovered another
sealed envelope.
It too bore a man's handwriting. But the script
wasn't Lamont's.
He tore the envelope open. When he saw the
signature, he grew uneasy.
Dear Sir.
As I stated to you on Monday, I have always been an
admirer of the man who was audacious rather than
hesitant. Battles are never won by the joint'
hearted.
Consequently, your unexpected arrival at my
residence may have generated responses on my part
which were ill advised.
I have this day come to Washington for private conferences
with Mr. F. P. Blair, Sr., and my commanding
officer.
The Titans241
Jephtha knew then something important had
happened. Francis P. Blair was the head of one
of the most powerful political families in the nation,
the Blairs of Maryland. He and his son
Montgomery, the Postmaster General, were channels
through which Lincoln sometimes spoke when he didn't
wish to speak directly.
The conversations were entirety confidential. But they
reflected, in part, some of my utterances to you on
Monday.
Thus I have concluded I must ask you, as a
gentleman, not to discuss, write, or otherwise
disseminate what passed between us. To make
certain my request is granted, I appeal to,
and depend on, your sense of honor. I deeply
regret any inconvenience I may have caused you.
Humbly faithfully yours, R. E. Lee
"Damnation!"
Van Dyne turned to stare as Jephtha flung the
letter on the floor and sat down to contemplate this
latest turn of events.
In the signature, Lee had omitted his rank.
Jephtha thought that was significant. From intuition and
experience, he could piece together the events leading to the
letter.
Virginia was out of the Union, which prompted Lee
to come to Washington. Through Blair, the President
had probably offered him command of the Federal forces-and
Lee, visiting Winfield Scott, had refused.
If the colonel hadn't already handed in his
resignation, Jephtha was sure he'd do so
shortly.
Feeling frustrated, he kicked the locked drawer
where he'd put the Lee notes and copy. Some
reporters he knew would have cheerfully ignored the
colonel's let
242The Bait
ter. He was tempted-especially when he
thought of Theo Payne.
But he couldn't let Payne's reaction influence
him. The drawer would remain locked.
In twenty minutes he'd prepared his dispatch for
transmission to New York. As he rose
to leave, he noticed the arrangement of the papers on
his desk. Looking more closely, he found that some
notes for the Canterbury Hall dispatch were missing.
So was the letter from Lamont.
He cursed again-unheard this time because of the uproar in the
lamplit room. Jim, the slow-witted sweep
boy, was undoubtedly the culprit. The notes and
letters had probably fallen on the floor. No
great loss. But if they'd been important-
Reluctantly, he decided he'd better
interrupt Wallach and mention it.
He was moving toward the editor's desk when young
Dennis, the reporter assigned to Richmond,
burst into the room:
"We've got a stop-press, Mr. Wallach!"
Wallach jumped up. "About time you came back!
That free nigra you hired to ride up here with your
last story took twice as long as he should have!"
"Sorry, sir," Dennis panted as Jephtha and the
other reporters crowded around. "They
weren't-shall we say-too friendly at the Richmond
telegraph office. I thought a courier was the
safest way. I damn near wore out Jhree
horses myself."
"Something big?"
"Yes, sir. I assume you know about the convention
vote-was
"Kent there brought the word from the presidential
mansion. Don't tell me that's all you've
got-?"
"No, sir. An exclusive-I don't think it
went out on the Richmond wire. The Virginia
militia's on the march."
The Titans243
All around Jephtha, men started talking
excitedly. Wallach shouted:
"Let him finish! How many troops, Dennis?"
"At least a thousand. It must have been planned
Monday or Tuesday. They started leaving the city the
minute the convention voted."
"Heading where?"
Dennis wiped his perspiring face. The trip from
Richmond was nearly a hundred miles. The young
reporter looked exhausted.
"According to a source I trust, Harper's
Ferry."
More commotion. Dennis added:
"I expect the troops are in position by now. Or
getting close-was
"We've already got a stop-press going. We'll
add that." Mollified, he added a curt, "Good
work."
Dennis looked wearily grateful as he sank to the
edge of a desk, only to jerk like a puppet when
Wallach pointed at him:
"I want half a dozen paragraphs right away.
Some of the rest of you help him. Barlow, you know the
situation at the armory and the arsenal-was
"Not exactly favorable to the Union side,"
Barlow drawled. "At last report,
Lieutenant Jones commanded forty-two regular
infantrymen."
"Jesus!" another man said. "Forty-two against a
thousand-was
"Jones will have to pull out," said a third. "Burn the
place."
"He'd better do a good job," Barlow commented.
"There are three or four thousand rifle barrels and
gun locks stored there. Plus the manufacturing
tools. If you want a nice irony,
Mr. Wallach, Lieutenant Jones is Robert
E. Lee's distant cousin."
"I want a story!" Wallach snapped. "Get
busy, Dennis. We'll hold the press until
we get the report from the depot"
244The Bait
"Some troops finally arriving?" Jephtha asked.
"Hell, don't give the competition any help,"
someone called sarcastically. " Let the reverend do
his own digging."
Wallach spun. "The reverend has two virtues
you don't, Mr. Cooper. He shares his information-as
you'd know if you'd been here half an hour ago. And
when he writes his copy, he's sober. Yes,
Kent, a train's bringing in the Pennsylvania
volunteers between six and seven. We received a wire
from Baltimore."
Jephtha headed for the door, light-headed. His
belly ached from emptiness. But it would stay empty for
several more hours. The news from Richmond and the
depot was more important than his hunger.
Outside the Star, he saw several of Cash
Clay's special guards patrolling on the other
side of the street. They didn't bother to conceal their
bolstered sidearms or their sheathed Bowies.
Two wagons loaded with household goods went by,
the first driven by a middle- aged man who had his
wife and adolescent daughter on the seat beside him.
A black man-the white man's slave?-drove the
other wagon. On all the faces, Jephtha saw
fear.
He stood a moment in the lowering light of the April
afternoon, wondering about Gideon. Could he be among the
thousand advancing on Harper's Ferry?
He hoped not. But he knew Gideon's commitment
to the cause would lead him into a battle eventually,
along with the sons of countless other fathers-
Hurrying toward the telegraph office, he
recalled yet another of the hundreds of passages
of Scripture that had become a part of him during his
years in the ministry. The verse from Isaiah,
chapter sixty, seemed to sum up the chaos into which the
country was plunging:
"for, behold, the darkness shall cover the earth, and gross
darkness the people-was
He found the remainder of the verse-promising that
The Titans245
the light and glory of the Lord would dispel the darkness
comimpossible to believe.
vi
At the telegraph office, he expanded the
Richmond convention story to include four
paragraphs about Harper's Ferry. While the clerk
was putting the dispatch on the wire, he quickly wrote
a second, shorter message. There was no way
to soften the news for Payne:
COLONEL LEE IN WASHINGTON TODAY.
SUSPECT HIS RESIGNATION TENDERED OR
FORTHCOMING. LEE REQUESTED I WITHHOLD
COMMENTS HE GAVE MONDAY. WILL HONOR
THE REQUEST. WILL ATTEMPT TO LEARN
DETAILS OF HIS VISITS TO BLAIR
SENIOR AND GENERAL SCOTT.
While the clerk hovered, Jephtha stared at the words
with a rueful smile. What a fool he was. A
priceless story-and solely his. Other reporters
wouldn't have-
Enough. He'd made up his mind. He added J.
KENT and gave the dispatch to the clerk.
Doing so raised another problem. He'd failed
to come up with a single solid and exclusive piece
since the firing on Sumter. He'd bargained away
one-the presence of the Pinkertons-for selfish
reasons. The other he'd abandoned because he had
to live with himself.
What could he offer Payne instead of the Lee
interview? Nothing suggested itself.
Jarred back to reality by a realization that the clerk had
spoken, he said, "What's that?"
"I said, do you want to wait for an answer?"
246The Bait
"To the second message?" Jephtha handed over
money. "No. When it comes in, just tear it up."
"Tear it up-?"
The clerk scratched his head as Jephtha walked
outside into the lengthening shadows, still trying to come up with
another idea for a story. He felt defeated. His
tired mind was a blank.
vii
Shortly after seven o'clock, Jephtha found his answer
comamid chaos.
He was on one of the platforms of the Baltimore
Ohio station between C and D Streets, three
blocks north of the Capitol. Steam still hissed from
beneath the twenty-two-ton B O Engine Number
232, just arrived.
The engine was a beautifully symmetrical wood-
burner of the type the line had begun buying from
Mason of Taunton, Massachusetts. In
"57 the builder had developed its
prototype, The Phantom, for the Toledo
Illinois. Knowledgeable travelers always felt
lucky to ride behind a Mason locomotive. The
Railway Gazette called his engines
"melodies cast and wrought in metal."
But this evening, neither Jephtha nor the arriving
passengers were the least interested in the aesthetic
considerations that had located the upper steam dome
exactly above the equalizing lever between the
sixty-six- inch driving wheels. Nor did they
pay the slightest attention to Mason's use of
tasteful dark blue paint accented by dark red on the
wheels and cowcatcher-a dignified contrast to the
rainbow gaudiness of most locomotives and tenders.
Jephtha wanted to talk to some of the four hundred and
sixty Pennsylvanians streaming up the platform.
The disorderly ranks hardly resembled a military
formation.
The Titans247
But there were quite a few signs that the men had seen some
fighting.
The blue capes of the soldiers had a crude,
homemade look. They wore forage caps modeled
after the French kepi. The caps were decorated with
small enameled badges Jephtha
recognized as the state seal of Pennsylvania:
an eagle spreading its wings above two rearing
horses, and a rippling ribbon bearing the words
Virtue, Liberty and Independence,
The relief troops carried every conceivable kind of
muzzle-loader. Many were rusty antiques.
Jephtha saw only half a dozen of the increasingly
popular rifled muskets.
Every other reporter in Washington, it seemed,
wanted to talk to the Pennsylvanians too. As a
result, Jephtha was jostled and shoved by his
competitors and ordered aside by this or that officer
while being constantly engulfed in hot steam.
The noise was stupefying. Thudding feet. Crude
jokes. Continuous shouting:
"Where they gonna to put us up, Charley?"
"Hear tell it's the committee rooms in the
Capitol."
"Mighty fancy!"
"Form up, goddamn it. Form up and keep moving!"
"Hope to hell they got food waitin' for us-was
Jephtha felt it prudent not to inform the complainer that
he'd only be eating bacon tonight. Early that day,
he'd watched greasy slabs of it being unloaded and
carried into the Capitol basement. God,
how the world had gone awry! Bacon frying in the
halls of Congress-and bright-cheeked volunteers
sleeping on Brussels carpets under crystal
chandeliers!
He managed to fall into step beside a young fellow with a
cut forehead. He shouted, "What unit are you?"
"Washington Artillery. Pottsville."
Jephtha scribbled with a pencil stub. A man just
behind
248The Befit
yelled, "We're gonna lob some shells straight
up the ass of Jeff Davis!"
"Looks like you've already done some fighting-was
"In Baltimore," the man behind growled.
The younger man said, "Secesh crowds followed us
while we changed stations. They yelled and cussed
something fierce. Threw things, too."
"The officers should of let us shoot the sonsa-
bitches," the man behind declared.
Jephtha struggled to write on a scrap of paper,
squinting in the glare at the head of the platform. The
oil wick in Number 232's headlight box was still
lit.
"How big was the mob that harassed you?" Jephtha
yelled.
"Three hundred-four hundred," the youth said. The
forward progress of the soldiers was stopped
momentarily by a jam-up in the terminal. "Who's
countin' when you think you're gonna get killed?"
"Was anyone killed?"
"No. But they say it'll be worse tomorrow."
"Tomorrow-his Hammond, quit shoving me!" Jephtha
snarled at another reporter. "Go talk to someone
else." He faced the young soldier again,
back-stepping to keep up as the men started forward.
"Why tomorrow?"
"Sixth Massachusetts is due to pass through."
"When?"
"Noon or thereabouts."
"Were you really frightened?"
The young man looked into Jephtha's eyes. His head
seemed to float in a cloud of glowing steam.
"Go ask Nick."
"Who's Nick?"
"Our nigger mascot. He come along for the fun. The
fun. He's back there a ways-was
The man behind caught Jephtha's arm. "You write
this down. For every lick they gave us in Baltimore,
The Titans249"
we'll give the fuckers ten in
Virginia. Nobody fires on Old Glory and
gets away with it. You write it downl"
Barked orders sent the soldiers shambling out of the
headlight's glare. Jephtha waited for the black
man he'd spied at the rear of the platoon.
The elderly Negro's uniform was just like those of the
white volunteers. But his head was wrapped in rags
stained reddish-brown.
"Your name Nick?"
"Nick Biddle, yessir. Come along to fight an
free my people."
Jephtha started walking backward again. He pointed
his pencil at the bandage. "How'd you get hurt?"
"Brick," Biddle replied, his eyes watering in
the steam. "A brick from the crowd. My God, I
never heard such filthy taunts. I'm not scared
to fight with my boys from Pottsville. But I
don't want to go through Baltimore again. Ill
walk home first."
A burly sergeant materialized in the steam:
"Biddle, fall in properly! You-out of the way!"
He shoved Jephtha, who stumbled from the plank
platform and fell onto the empty tracks
adjoining.
The left knee of Jephtha's trousers
tore as it ground against the cinders between the ties.
Dim lines of men kept shuffling by, spirits dampened
by the long journey and the mob antagonism they'd
confronted. Gun barrels glinted in the gusting steam.
Jephtha shivered. The train shed resembled a
picture from hell.
No, not hell.
War.
If there was any difference.
He collected the scraps of note paper
scattered by his fall and stood up, dusting himself
off. Suddenly he drew in a breath-
They say it'll be worse tomorrow.
He recalled Lamont's letter. His eyes had an
intense
250The Bait
look as he followed the Pennsylvanians out of the
depot into the April dark.
A small crowd, including families with children,
applauded the troops as they assembled. Soon they
started marching toward the Capitol-for a welcome
by Major McDowell and a sparse meal of bacon in
the basement.
vui
"Strangest damn thing-was
Jephtha sat on the edge of Molly's bed, his
brow wrinkled in a moody, thoughtful expression.
He was exhausted. The time was just past midnight.
An hour ago he'd filed another dispatch about the
arrival of the troops.
"commost of them were boys. And they were scared. Scared and
worn out. But there was a kind of excitement in the
air, too. Expecially when they got back
into formation outside the depot It's the sort of
feeling I've read about injhe New York
papers. People are-was He struggled to phrase it.
"comon fire. The whole North's on fire. Because
someone dared to shoot at the flag."
"Americans have gone to war for the same reason before,"
Molly said.
"Not against each other. I tell you, it scares hell
out of me."
Molly's skirts rustled as she moved closer
to him. "What scares me is the idea of your going
to Baltimore in the morning."
"Well, I am going. First train-was
He pulled off one boot, then the other.
"comseven o'clock sharp." She started to object.
"Molly, I told you what happened with the Lee
material. I couldn't use it."
"Name me one other newsman with scruples like
The Titans251
that! Are you trying to be a saint or a reporter?"
She stroked his forehead, smiling sadly. "I know the
answer. A little of both."
"Don't pin any decorations on me. From a job
standpoint, what I did was stupid. But I just
couldn't ignore Lee's request. He's the kind
of man who still believes the word honor means something.
He may be old- fashioned, but there are damned
few like him any more. At least in these times. Still, I
owe Theo Payne a good piece of copy.
Lamont's letter corroborated what the soldiers
said about tomorrow."
"I'd be curious to see that letter from Mr.
Lamont."
"It got lost at the office. He gave me the
information because he didn't know any other way to thank
me. I think he was sincere."
She still looked concerned. He took hold of her
shoulders:
"Stop fretting. Baltimore's only an hour and
twenty- five minutes by train. I'll be back
before supper."
"I still wish you wouldn't-was
"I have to go where the stories are, Molly. Tomorrow could
bring the first casualties of-was
She jerked aweaay. "You sound like a ghoul."
Softly: "I'm sorry. But I do owe Payne."
"Hang Payne! It's you I care about. This is a
war- you'll admit that much, won't you?"
He pressed his palms against his temples. Thought of
Gideon-
"Yes, it's a war. All we can do now is hope
it won't last long. Can we go to bed? I'm worn
out."
A short while later, when he thought she'd fallen
asleep, he turned onto his side. Despite his
exhaustion, he couldn't relax.
He punched at his pillow to rearrange it, then
gazed towaid the curtained windows. Instead of an
expanse of darkness, he saw the ragged lines of
volunteers shuf-
252The Bait
fling through the steam and glare at the depot. Instead of the
night sounds of the house, he heard the ominous tramp
of men marching-
"Jephtha?"
He started: "I didn't realize you were still
awake."
"I've been thinking about tomorrow."
"What about it?"
"I want you to be careful. I don't want
anything to happen to you."
He slipped his arm under her shoulder, drawing her
against him. He kept his voice as light as he could:
"I'm not anxious for that either, Mrs. Emerson."
"Be serious. I want you to take my gun."
"All right, if it'll ease your mind. But I
don't think I'll be in any danger. It's the
troops who have to worry. No one's interested in
killing a hack with a low salary and even lower
morals."
He kissed her again. "Let's try to get some
sleep."
CHAPTER IX
Bloody Baltimore
THE CROWD JAMMED both sides of President
Street, watching the passage of the slow- moving
railway car.
A red-faced woman next to Jephtha flung a
stone. The woman's daughter, no more than ten,
cupped her hands around her mouth and screeched:
"You just wait till old Beauregard gets hold
of you!" She too found a rock and threw
it.
The first stone had landed harmlessly on the tracks of the
street railway behind the passenger car, which was being
pulled by two lathered horses. The child's rock
struck the frame of one of the car windows. The crowd
applauded. It was a hostile crowd, spreading for
blocks in either direction.
Behind the window where the rock had hit, a blue-
clad man shook a fist. People who saw raised then
fists in return.
Jephtha's black suit was unbearably hot. His
skin felt gritty from the soot that had accumulated
during the early morning ride up to Baltimore's
Camden Street station. The loaded Sharps was in his
pocket. But he hoped there'd be no need to use the
gun. He was here to get a story, and from the mood of the
mob, he was sure it would be a grim one.
Maryland was an almost perfect example of the
country's divided feeling. The state's northern
boundary was the Mason and Dixon line. Sentiment in
the eastern

254Bloody Baltimore
counties was predominantly Southern. The farm
folk in the western part of the state tended
to side with their Unionist neighbors across the border
in Pennsylvania. Baltimore too reflected
the division. With a distinctly Southern style of
life, it still had extensive commercial ties with the
North because it was industrialized.
But there appeared to be no Northern sympathizers
on President Street today. Perhaps fear had kept
them at home.
Jephtha pulled off his hat. Wiped his sticky
forehead with the back of his hand. Noon had come and gone.
The pleasant April weather seemed at odds with the
uglv faces all around him.
The railway car packed with men of the Sixth
Massachusetts crossed the intersection half a
block to Jephtha's left. It was the ninth car
to make the slow transfer from the Philadelphia,
Wilmington and Baltimore depot. Jephtha had
studied the faces of the soldiers behind the smoke-stained
windows of the cars. They were frightened and angry. No
wonder. The crowd kept growing; its animosity
kept erupting in jeers and curses-
Across the street, a man hurled a chunk of brick
at the car which was now well out of range. The man's
coat flapped open. Jephtha saw a holstered
revolver.
He began to scrutinize the crowd more closely.
He soon spotted other weapons. Sheathed
knives. Even a muzzle-loader thrust up
defiantly a few yards to his right-
The red-faced woman tugged his arm. "Mister you got
any idea how many more of those damn blue-coats are
waiting at the President Street station?"
Jephtha had calculated the approximate number
of men each car carried. "I'd guess four or
five companies."
"We can't get to "em as long as they hide in
those cars," the woman complained. A white-bearded
man heard her:
The Titans255
"They ain't gonna be able to hide much longer." He
pointed to the right. "Looky up yonder."
People strained forward to see:
"What're they doin"?"
"What's in those barrels?"
Jephtha stood on tiptoe in the cobbled street.
Up the block half a dozen men were manhandling
casks to the tracks. Applause and shouts came
rippling down both sides of the street
"It's sand!"
"They're dumpin sand on the tracks,
God bless "em-was
"No more cars can come through. The sojers are gonna have
to walk-was
"It's about time!" the red-faced woman said
to Jephtha. She frowned at his appalled
expression. "Or are you on their side?"
He was curt: "I'm a newspaperman. I'm not
on either side."
Huge mounds of sand were now heaped in the middle of
President Street. To guarantee the barrier would
be effective, half a dozen small sea anchors
were thrown on top of the sandpiles.
More applause. A man nearby brandished a
revolver:
"Come on, Yankee! Show your face, I dare
you!"
The sun broiled the back of Jephtha's neck.
As he reached up to loosen his sticky collar, he was
startled by the sight of a familiar face on the other
side of the street. A pinched face, with eyes
narrowed against the glare-
The man was standing well back from the curb, screened
from time to time by people moving in front of him. Jephtha
frowned. What the hell was a War Department clerk
doing in Baltimore?
Josiah Cheever noticed him. Jephtha nodded.
256Bloody Baltimore
Cheever stared but gave no sign of recognition.
He turned to speak to a man beside him-a huge
fellow with a long beard as red and bushy as his
mustache. The man's dirty homespun suit
made Jephtha think of a saloon derelict.
He had the uneasy feeling Cheever and the red-
bearded giant were talking about him.
Down the street, a pistol exploded. Someone
cried, "Three cheers for Jeff Davis!"
The cheers roared out, echoed by the people around him. Women
waved handkerchiefs. Men flaunted pistols.
Jephtha counted eight guns just in his immediate vicinity.
The demonstration momentarily distracted him. When he
glanced back across the street, Cheever and the
red-bearded man had vanished. For no reason he
could explain, his palms turned cold and sweaty.
Far to his left, the last car had dwindled to a
blur. After a short interval of calm, the people grew
restless again. Where were the Yankees? Cowering in the
station because the tracks were blocked? Jephtha
presumed someone had carried word to the remaining units
that no more cars could get through.
Ten minutes passed.
Ten more.
Repeatedly, Jephtha's glance was drawn back
to the place where he'd seen Cheever and his
unsavory- looking friend. Neither of them reappeared
among the elderly men, young matrons, and pink-faced
children with angry faces. He was utterly depressed
by the sight of Americans waiting with pistols and
stones in the hope of hurting other Americans.
An uneasy stillness settled. All around him,
Jephtha smelled human sweat. A jungle
smell. Suddenly heads began to turn in the
direction of the President Street station-
The Titans257
Jephtha elbowed his way into the street a second
time. He shielded his eyes; let out a soft,
despairing curse-
Several blocks away, he saw men in blue.
Sunlight winked on shouldered muskets. The
Sixth Massachusetts had decided to march
to Camden Station.
The first sound he heard was the rhythmic tramping of
feet. Then a louder one drowned it out: a
prolonged, hostile screaming from hundreds of
voices that sounded like one voice; like the bay of an
animal-
"They're coming through!" the red-faced woman squealed.
"Oh, the sons-of-bitches are coming through!"
She hugged her little daughter, her eyes moist. Then
she shoved the child away:
"Find more stones, Sulene! Stones for both of us-was
The girl darted away, her face shining with joy.
Jephtha closed his eyes and shook his head.
The Sixth Massachusetts came on, splitting
into two columns to pass around the anchor-topped
piles of sand. When the first company was within a block
and a half of Jephtha's position, he noticed a
man in civilian clothes out in front of the
soldiers. The man rushed from one side of the street
to the other, pausing to speak and gesture. He bent
toward his listeners in an attitude of pleading.
Jephtha asked a man on his left who the
civilian might be. The man spat a stream of
tobacco juice.
"'Pears to be Mayor Brown. Looks like he's
tryin to hep the sojers get through, the damn
turncoat."
Jephtha watched the frantic mayor run back
to the center of the street ahead of the troops. Brown
raised his hands over his head, obviously appealing for
re
258Bloody Baltimore
straint. The crowd jeered and hissed. The
Massachusetts soldiers kept coming, only a
block away now.
Unexpectedly, Brown's presence seemed
to quiet the spectators. Faces of the soldiers
became discernible. Young faces, mostly. Sweating.
Nervous. But the soldiers maintained their cadence.
They were obviously better trained than the
Pennsylvanians Jephtha had seen the evening before.
Officers watched the crowd and kept their hands close
to their sidearms.
Suddenly the tobacco-chewer whirled to qjKhort those
nearby:
"You gonna let that yella Brown protect those
Yanks?"
"Hell, no!"
"Never!"
"By Jesus, we aren't!" the red-faced woman
cried. She threw her rock, hard.
The rock arched high and dropped a few feet from the
mayor, who was speaking to onlookers on the street's
far side. Brown started when the rock struck the
cobbles and skittered toward him. He rushed back
to the sun-shimmering rails and thrust his hands
in the air again. This time, Jephtha could hear him:
"Citizens of Baltimore! I appeal to your
decency-was
"Who paid you, Mayor?" a man yelled. "Abe the
ape?"
Groans greeted the mention of the president. Brown
saw the weapons in the crowd and grew even more
alarmed. Counterpointed by the tramp of the marchers, his
voice was shrill:
"Please listen to me! Maryland is not a part of the
Confederacy! Harassment of Federal soldiers is
unlawful and foreign to the hospitable tradition of our
city-was
Derisive laughter. Stones flew. One struck
a corporal in the leading platoon, knocking off his
cap. The corporal jerked his rifled musket
to his shoulder.
Jephtha's fists knotted at his sides. The
soldier's
?"
The Titans259
weapon appeared to be a late-model .58
caliber that fired the remarkably accurate
bullets developed by the French officer, Captain
Mhu6. He assumed the weapon was
loaded.
Sun glared on the barrel as the corporal broke
ranks and swung toward the crowd. His captain ran
up beside him, grabbed his arm, whispered to him.
Scowling, the corporal shouldered his weapon and jogged
to catch up with his rank.
Across the way, a man howled, "Here's the
hospitality we show Yanks!" He hurled a
piece of paving block.
The block hit an infantryman almost abreast of
Jephtha. The soldier stumbled, dropped his
musket He had to be helped to his feet by those
around him- bringing the column to a halt.
Somewhere beyond the soldiers, Brown was practically
screaming:
"I beg you to return to your homes! I demand you
disperse! We'll have police here any minute
to enforce-was
Profanity and boos blurred the rest More rocks were
thrown. The men of the Sixth Massachusetts were forced
to stand in the street, dodging the missiles as best they
could.
The tobacco-chewer next to Jephtha lunged forward.
He grabbed a soldier's musket:
"I'll show you how to use that thing!"
The soldier hung on. "Let go, damn you!"
Three more men converged on him. Soon a dozen
civilians and soldiers were fighting for possession of
weapons. The same sort of melee started at other
places down the line. Beyond the struggling men,
Jephtha glimpsed Mayor Brown standing motionless,
hands at his sides and a sick expression on his
face.
One of the Massachusetts infantrymen slammed the
butt of his musket into the tobacco-chewer's head.
The
260Bloody Baltimore
old man sprawled, yelling obscenities. He
tried to get to his feet but was too stunned.
To Jephtha's left, there was a sudden flurry of
color. Using both hands, a pretty young woman
spread the new Confederate flag he had only
heard about The banner had a broad white stripe
between two red ones and a blue field in which a circle
of six white stars surrounded a seventh.
Other people seized the edges of the flag, raising it.
Despite the confusion, Jephtha couldn't help
making a professional judgment:
They'll soon comwant a new design. No
matter how many stars they stitch on, that one
looks like the Federal flag. Not easy
to differentiate in battle-
The appearance of the flag produced thunderous cheering,
wave after wave of sound that diverted the soldiers and
civilians grappling over the muskets. An
officer at the head of the column seized the
opportunity:
"FoThat-aardl Quick-step! QidckstepFrom
The soldiers fought free of their assailants and
started jogging. The officer had made a wise
decision, Jephtha thought. The sooner the Sixth
Massachusetts reached the other depot, the better.
A look of rapture lit the face of the pretty
woman who had unfurled the flag. She shrieked
at the trotting soldiers:
"Cowards!"
"Look at the yellow dogs, Sulene!" the
red-faced woman cried. The mob roared louder.
Jephtha realized the people had completely
misinterpreted an order issued to prevent the
confrontation from growing worse. Rocks rained. The
screaming intensified:
"Scairt of Marylanders, that's what they are!"
"Run, little boys! Run!"
"Cowards!"
"COWARDS!"
The red-faced woman flung another rock. Jt
gashed
The Titans261
the cheek of a soldier trotting by. Across the
street, a pistol cracked. Almost
simultaneously, the soldier whose cheek streamed
blood" swung his musket in Jephtha's
direction. He fired into the crowd.
The man who'd been chewing tobacco took the Minie
ball in his chest. His mouth spewed brown juice as
he pitched onto the cobbles. A soldier kicked the
side of his head. The man behind struck it with the butt
of his rifle-
Civilians on both sides of President
Street scattered, screaming. More gunshots. A
sudden yelp of pain. Smoke began to drift in the
sunlight-All around Jephtha, people shoved and pushed,
afraid of being hit. He was borne back from the
edge of the plank walk as two more soldiers fired.
He saw little Sulene fall. A man's
hobnailed boot tore her face open.
Three or four yards away, separated from her child
by the sudden confusion, the red-faced woman was catting,
"Sulene? Sulene-?"
Jephtha used his fists and elbows to gain room. His
dark hair flying, he snatched up the wailing
tilde hild.
"Here she is! I have her!" he roared over the din of
running feet, clattering rocks, shrieks,
gunshots.
The red-faced woman fought her way toward him. Some
in the crowd were trying to get back to the street;
mostly men with hand guns. He braced his boots on
the walk, buffeted from every side. He managed
to hold his place until the woman reached him and
clasped the girl in her arms:
"Thank you, sir, thank you-oh, my God,
Sulene-was oh, my God, those butchers-was
Jephtha wiped sweat from his nose and said nothing. The
weeping woman seemed to have forgotten her role in
provoking the violence, and that a civilian, not a
soldier, had caused the child's injury.
The woman staggered out of sight Down the street the
Sixth Massachusetts was on the run, followed
by a
262Bloody Baltimore
large crowd of men with weapons. More shots rang out.
Jephtha prayed the officers had ordered the
soldiers to fire above the heads of the
civilians. Only that way could a slaughter be
averted.
Watching the smoke rise on President Street,
he was completely unprepared for the attack from behind.
iv
A man hurrying into the street shoved him. He
sidestepped, off balance. Something tore the skirt
of his black coat. Astonished, he glanced down and
saw a length of metal tangled in the fabric.
The metal vanished in an eyebliiik; withdrawn.
Someone comwas behind him; someone comwho had struck for his
spine with a knife. Only the accidental jostling had
saved him-
He spun around, his pale eyes opening wide at the
sight of the red-bearded man.
They were comwatching me backslash
For an instant, the men exchanged astonished stares.
Red-beard was stunned because he'd failed; Jephtha
because the unexpected assault was the last touch of
irrationality on a sunlit day already poisoned with
madness.
In that suspended moment while he listened to the bearded
man's breath hissing between his teeth, a curious thought
struck him. The man bore him no special
animosity. No hate showed in his eyes-
But he still held the knife close to his leg,
ready to use again.
About two feet separated Jephtha and red-beard.
People hurried by on both sides, hardly giving them a
glance. The man's hand jerked upward suddenly, his
knuckles white around the Bowie's handle-
The Titans263
A woman saw the knife. Screamed; pointed
Red- beard was quick to explain the knife by shouting:
"You cheered for the Yanks one time too many, mister-w
The blade came streaking toward Jephtha's
rumpled shirt. His hands felt heavy;
immobilized by his surprise. There was no time
to reach for the pepperbox-
The fast thud of Jephtha's heart was loud in his
ears as he shot both hands toward the man's wrist.
He clamped the hard flesh with his fingers and held the
knife away by sheer strength.
The red-bearded man grunted, pushing. The knife
quivered two inches from Jephtha's belly.
The huge man pushed harder. Already Jephtha's
arms ached. Blood oozed from his lower lip as he
bit down on it.
He was aware of several people watching. No one
interfered. This was a day for violent
quarrels.
He felt himself weakening rapidly. He maintained
his grip on the bearded man's arm, but the Bowie
moved closer and closer. His fingers were slippery with
sweat If he once let go, he'd be dead-
Numbness was spreading through both hands. He couldn't
hold on much longer-
Desperate, he kicked the man's left shin.
The man grunted again, seemingly unhurt. But he
shifted the weight off the leg Jephtha had kicked.
Jephtha yanked the man's arm downward, hammering
his wrist over his own raised knee.
The Bowie clattered on the plank walk. Both
men bent for it at the same time. Jephtha thumbed
red beard's left eye.
The man yelled; lurched against him. Jephtha
crashed to his knees. The man sprawled across his
back.
Even under that crushing burden, Jephtha found the
Bowie. He drove the point into red-beard's
dangling forearm.
264Bloody Baltimore
The point of the knife pierced homespun-
flesh-scraped on bone-
Red-beard screamed.
Jephtha rolled out from under him; let him fall. The
Bowie stuck out of the man's shabby coat, only
half its blade visible.
Panting, Jephtha looked around. The entire
struggle had lasted less than a minute. Something like
a dozen people had gathered. A man in a frock coat
and string tie stepped forward with an air of authority.
"Which side was that fellow on, sir?"
Jephtha jerked out the Sharps. A woman covered
her mouth.
"The wrong one."
There was a wild look in Jephtha's eyes. The
man in the frock coat hesitated, as if waiting
for support from the others. No one said a word.
Jephtha began backing away.
He spun and leaped into the street, running after the
soldiers. They were almost two blocks ahead. He
pursued them as fast as he could, driven to escape a
trap he didn't understand. His heart raced. His
lungs and his bladder hurt.
He jumped over a blue bundle lying on the
tracks, catching a distorted glimpse of a
Massachusetts boy with a black hole in his right
temple. The boy's eyes were focused on the
cobblestones an inch from his nose.
He ran on, A panicky glance backward showed
no pursuit. There was too much confusion and carnage
on President Street for one fight to attract
great attention.
He dodged around another body; a civilian. Still
no one stopped him. Perhaps it was the pepperbox. He
looked as if he were chasing the troops.
His lungs burned now. His legs began to hurt as
badly as his arms had during the nightmare moment when
the Bowie was only inches from his belly. In his
The Titans265
mind, one question repeated itself; a question for which there was no
adequate answer:
Why did he try to kill me?
Why?
iv
By the time he reached the Camden Street Station,
detachments of Baltimore police had arrived.
They formed a cordon and used their batons to beat
back a few determined members of the crowd milling
in the street. The mob was small now; two or
three dozen. Its size had diminished quickly once
the firing started.
After showing a frayed card which identified him as a
correspondent, Jephtha was passed through
the cordon. With a gasp of relief, he pushed open
the depot doors.
Inside the dim station the Massachusetts officers
were trying to form up their commands and get the men aboard the
cars waiting in the train shed. Still short of breath,
Jephtha showed his identification a second time:
"Captain, I'm with the New York Union. I
damn near got killed back there-was "You're not the
only one." "Can I get on the train?"
The officer scrutinized him, then said, "Last car.
There's plenty of room-was Bitterly: "We've
lost a hundred or so." "A hundred dead?"
"Scattered in the confusion. So far as I know, only
four of our men were killed. We took care of at
least twice that many. Maybe more. Better hurry.
We aren't waiting for stragglers, or the band." "The
regimental band?" "It's still back at the other station.
Get going!"
266Bloody Baltimore
He shoved Jephtha aside, wigwagging to fhree
young soldiers carrying a fourth on a litter
improvised from an overcoat. The unconscious
boy's trousers showed a bloody bullet hole
above the right hip. The captain pointed to the shed:
"Get aboard! We're rolling out before
there's more shooting-was
Jephtha dashed into the shed, hauled himself up the steps
of the rear car and stopped on the platform. He drew
several deep breaths. The pain in his chest lessened.
He leaned out and peered toward the head of the train.
Steam was up. Beyond the engine, he glimpsed men
gathering where the shed's roof met sunlight.
The men were civilians. Somehow they'd eluded the
police. The trouble wasn't over-
Jephtha entered the car and sank down on a hard
bench beside a young soldier without a cap. The
soldier's uniform was torn and dirty. The butt of
his rifled musket was planted on the floor between his
feet. He held the muzzle with both hands, as if
he might fan without the support.
The boy stared at the head of the soldier in front of
him, totally unaware of Jephtha's presence.
Tears ran down his cheeks.
More soldiers swarmed into the car. Officers yelled.
The locomotive whistle bellowed twice. The
engine bell began to clang and didn't stop.
The car lurched. The train was moving.
The sensation roused the young soldier. He blinked.
Noticed Jephtha. Still crying, he said:
"They-they killed Ned. He was-right beside
me. When he fell, the sergeant wouldn't let me
stop to pick him up."
"Was Ned a good friend?"
"My older brother." The soldier blinked again,
several times. "Ned always looked out for me, he-was
The Titans267
The words dissolved into a sob. Still gripping the
musket, the boy bent his head. His shoulders shook.
Some of his companions looked at him. One stretched
out a hand from across the aisle and touched his shoulder.
Abruptly, sunshine spilled through the
dirt-speckled windows. The civilians surged
at the train from both sides. Several soldiers
lifted their muskets. Up and down the car, officers
shouted:
"Sit still!"
"No firing!"
"But goddamn it, Lieutenant-was
"No firing!"
Slowly, the car creaked ahead. Jephtha stared at
the cursing men running alongside the car. He heard
one well-dressed, white-haired fellow shout:
"Give them one more cheer for Jeff Davis before they
go!"
The soldier next to Jephtha smashed the
window with the muzzle of his musket and pulled the
trigger.
Smoke and the smell of powder swirled through the car.
The well-dressed man reeled back, hit.
Someone near him screamed, "You filthy bastards, this
man wasn't on President Street! He just
got here!"
Another man yelled, "Mr. Davis is dead."
Jephtha was confused until he realized the well-
dressed gentleman evidently bore the same name
as the man for whom he'd proposed a cheer. For his
zeal, he'd gotten a bullet.
Dry-eyed, the young soldier resettled his musket
between his heels. A lieutenant rushed down the
aisle to his side:
"Coyle, you heard the order not to fire!"
The boy glanced up. His look was glacial
"They shot Ned."
"Oh, Jesus, Jimmy. I didn't realize
your brother was one of-was
2'He was," the boy interrupted. Before
Jephtha's eyes, he seemed to age twenty
years. "Now what did you have to say about my
shooting-sir?"
The lieutenant knuckled his mustache.
"Nothing, Jimmy." He faced about and walked up
the aisle.
The bell on the locomotive kept clanging. The
tram gathered speed.
Jephtha stared at young Coyle's sunlit
profile. The hatred in the soldier's eyes was
ageless and ugly to behold. His own brush with death
momentarily forgotten, he thought, We've shed the first
real blood-
On both sides.
"i
68Bloody Baltimore
The special train chugged through Maryland's rolling
green countryside, passing Relay House where the
western line from Harper's Ferry met the main
track, then Annapolis Junction where an eastern
spur came in from Chesapeake Bay. Most of the
soldiers sat quietly, numbed by the carnage on
President Street. Occasionally someone offered an
obscene boast that the Sixth Massachusetts would
retaliate harshly when given the chance. No one
responded to the boasting. In the silence, the trucks
rattled with a forlorn sound.
Jephtha had finally calmed down. He was able to think
of his own situation. Of the bearded man who
had talked with Cheever. Questions spilled one on top
of the next:
Why was Cheever in Baltimore at all? To help
stir up the mob?
It was possible. He'd done the same thing at
Canterbury Hall.
Assuming that, why had Cheever conspired with some
stranger to arrange an attack? Because Jephtha
represented a pro-adttrinisttation newspaper?
The Titans269
Ridiculous. There had been too many other, more
important targets along President Street.
Still, the more he pondered, the more he was convinced the
attack was anything but accidental. Yet he couldn't
get beyond a final wall represented by one word:
Why?
All at once, the wall cracked:
Cheever had been at Canterbury Hall
to support Edward Lamont.
And Lamont had written him that note suggesting he
might find it worthwhile to be in Baltimore when
the troops came through.
Lamont-
Could he be the connection?
As he thought of Fan and her husband, his
hands began to tremble again. My God, was I gutted
by Lamont?
If I was, did Fan know?
He didn't want to believe the suspicions.
They undercut his struggle with himself; his victory over
his own rage. He didn't want to believe
Fan's husband could be involved.
But he could find no other explanation. Coincidence
comchance-a spur-of-the-moment murder made no sense-
While a carefully planned murder made
excellent sense, for one very good reason.
Jephtha Kent, the trusting fool The stupid ex-
preacher. Eager to see virtue where there wasn't
any. Easy to convince; to trick-
He realized young Coyle was staring:
"Mister? You sick?"
Jephtha whispered, "No." He hardly saw the
boy's face, or the new-leafed trees and the
cattle slipping by in the mellow afternoon light He was
consumed by the same fierce hatred he'd felt before
Molly begged him to
270Bloody Baltimore
read the Testament again; pleaded with him to find the good in
Fan and her husband-
Cheever and Lamont
Was there a link?
He had to find the answer, no matter how painful and
humiliating it might be.
vi
Toward the end of the afternoon, the special arrived at
Washington's B O terminal. The uninjured
troops piled off the cars, confronted by reporters
already alerted by telegraph. The scene was almost as
tumultuous as that in Baltimore-except that here,
the crowd on the platform was friendly.
Stretchers had been piled at trackside. The
wounded were unloaded with great care. Small bands of
women came charging through the tangle of newsmen and
soldiers. The women carried scraps of every sort of
cloth from petticoat linen to toweling. Watching the
determined progress of one such group, Jephtha
collided with a small, primly dressed lady.
He knew he'd seen her before but couldn't recall
where.
"Excuse me-was he began.
"Quite all right, Mr. Kent." She hurried on.
He remembered then. She worked at the Patent
Office, where he went occasionally in search of filler
material about novel inventions. She was only a
clerk, with the look of the perennial spinster.
Somehow, though, she'd undergone a change. Chin up and
head tilted back, she glared at an exceptionally
tall officer who barred her way:
"See here, sir. I'll appreciate your stepping
aside!"
"Sorry, ma'am. There are too many blasted
sightseers on the platform already."
"Those women I'm trying to reach are not sightseers.
The Utans271
I am Miss Clara Barton of the Patent
Office. The other ladies and I are volunteers.
We've come to tend those who were hurt."
For emphasis, she tapped the strips of white
gauze draped over the sleeve of her drab
dress.
"Tell me how many wounded you have, Lieutenant,"
she added. "And be quick about it!"
Astonished by the little woman's assertiveness, the
lieutenant mumbled, "How many-his Not sure. At
least thirty-was
"Thirty! Let me by so I can see to them! We'll
ride with them to the E Street Infirmary. We have
special hacks waiting outside-sir, will you move
or must I use bodily force?"
Gaping, the officer stepped back.
Jephtha lost sight of Miss Barton as she worked
her way toward the injured men being loaded on the
stretchers.
He walked through the station, ignoring questions from a couple
of reporters who trailed him. There was a ferocious
anger building within him; stronger and more savage than
anything he'd ever experienced. He kept it inkier
control as best he could, proceeding on foot to the
Evening Star.
He shared the essential details of the Baltimore
killings with Wallach, then wrote out his own copy
for the Union. His dispatch was short-about two hundred
words-but by the time he handed it in at the telegraph
office, darkness had fallen.
He hurried to President's Park, up the steps
of the War Department and into the office of one of his
usual sources, a pudgy undersecretary named
Gray.
Gray was frantically stuffing papers into a valise.
He goggled at Jephtha's sooty face and
ripped clothing:
"Where the devil did you get so dirty,
Jephtha?"
"Baltimore."
Gray sat down. "Oh, Christ The
Sixth Massachusetts-was
272Bloody Baltimore
"Yes. There are at least four dead. Thirty or
more injured."
"I heard there was fighting. I had no idea it was so
bad."
"Gray, I need inf ormation."
Helplessly, the other man pointed to the bulging bag.
Tin overdue for an emergency meeting with State."
"What's happened?"
"The Virginians have surrounded Harper's Ferry."
"Has it fallen?"
"There's no definite word. Yet. But you figure
the odds. Jones has hardly any troops. I
hope to God he's torched the place and
retreated-was He resumed filling the valise.
"There's hell popping down at Norfolk, too.
That old fossil Commodore McCauley's in a
state of absolute panic. Half his staffs
Southern. They've talked him out of taking any
action. Our biggest and best steam frigate,
Merrimack, is still there because McCau- ley
didn't obey orders and move her out. He was
afraid of offending the Virginia convention! We'll
probably lose our ships and the whole
damn yard!" He shut the valise. "Sorry I
can't stay to answer your-was
Jephtha seized Gray's arm. "If
McCauley's losing the yard this minute, all your
conferences won't do any good. I told you-I need
information"
Gray swallowed, alarmed by Jephtha's ferocity.
I've said too much already."
Jephtha released him. "Nothing that won't be
public in the morning."
"But I'm late!"
"I just want a few facts about one of your
clerks."
"Who?"
"Cheever."
"Ah, Josiah-was The pale man waved. "Good
riddance."
"What do you mean?"
The Titans273
"He's part of the secesh crowd. He resigned
late yesterday."
"Left town?"
"So I assume."
"Gray, this is very important. You've just
admitted Cheever had a good many Southern
acquaintances." He pointed at an inkstand.
"Write down the name of every one of them you can
remember. You get around a good deal-Willard's-the
National. Surely you've seen Cheever talking
to men you recognized."
"Jephtha, what the hell's going on? You look
grimmer than death."
"These are grim days. Write the names."
"No, I won't put anything on paper. "I'll
tell you as many as I can recall. I have seen
Cheever at the National. Often-was
Ten minutes later Jephtha left the War
Department and crossed to the north side of
Pennsylvania Avenue. He was glad he was still
carrying the loaded Sharps.
Two rough-looking black men started to accost him, but
stepped aside when they saw the expression on his
face.
CHAPTERX
Accusation
"The years creep slowly by, Lorena. The snow
is on the grass again-was
Gideon Kent's baritone boomed from behind the closed
door of the bedroom where he'd gone to shave aad
wash. Fan tried to concentrate on the
discussion between her husband and the young guest who had sent
up his carte de visited a short time ago. But
Gideon's exuberant vocalizing made it
difficult
The sun's low down the sky, Lorena, The frost
gleams where the flowers have been-was
And why on earth was he bellowing the Reverend
Webster's sentimental love lyric, five years
old but still as popular as ever, instead of the raucous
minstrel novelties he generally favored?
There were a great many more questions she wanted to ask her
son. She'd had no opportunity. He'd
arrived, sweaty and smiling, only moments- before the
porter presented the visitor's card.
She thought she heard Jeremiah complain about his
brother's noise. She'd sent the younger boy into the
bedroom with Gideon, who ignored the complaint:
"But the heart-throbs on as warmly now As when the
summer days were nigh.

The Titans275
Oh, the sun can never dip so law A4own
affection's cloudless sky."
From the settee in the window bay, Fan said:
"Please forgive the noise, Mr.
Booth. My son's happy because his visit
to Richmond was such a success."
The caller smiled. "I'm glad, Mrs.
Lamont And there's nothing to forgive. Your son has
a fine voice."
The caller's chair faced that of her husband.
Edward's left foot rested on a stooLike A
gutta-percha cane leaned against his thigh. He'd
recovered rapidly, though a pulled muscle still
made him limp a little. That was the reason he'd bought
the cane.
The limp and the cane drew sympathetic glances in the
hotel dining room. Perhaps Edward really had no
need of the cane, but Fan didn't raise the
issue. She'd long ago accustomed herself to his
harmless vanities. And he had risked his life-
The mantel clock chimed half after seven. Young
Mr. Wilkes Booth rose and tucked his own
cane under the sleeve of his elegant fawn coat.
"I really should be leaving so you can go downstairs for
dinner."
"The dining room serves until eight-thirty,"
Fan said.
"Still, I must be on my way."
"I'm delighted you called," Edward said.
"Since I had to ride over from Bel Air on
business, I couldn't pass up the opportunity."
"It's certainly a privilege to meet another
member of your distinguished family. When I toured with
your brother Junius, he told me you might well
emerge as the brightest star of the lot."
"Oh, I think my brother Edwin has his eye
fixed on that position," Fan detected an undertone
of jealousy in the remark.
She had to admit Edward's guest was exceedingly
handsome. She guessed him to be in his early
twenties. Though he wasn't tall, he had dash
and an air of wiry
276AccusNot
strength. He was much more carefully groomed than many
actors she'd met
Wilkes Booth picked up his fawn top hat and
settled it on his dark hair. Both his hair and his
mustache glistened with pomade. Fan could discern
only one flaw in his appearance. He was bow-legged.
But his loosely cut trousers tended to conceal it.
No doubt he bought oversized trousers for that
express purpose.
"I'm content to let Edwin shine on the stage," the
young man went on. "That buffoon in the
executive mansion has given us a more important
arena in which to perform. Before the curtain rings down on his
contemptible reign, every man with courage will rise to the
challenge. One way or another."
Fan was bothered by a peculiar look in the actor's
eyes. It disappeared as he extended his hand. Edward
labored from his chair with an exaggerated grimace.
He clasped the younger man's hand.
"You've already done so," Booth went on. "I'm
certain posterity will take note of it." He
smiled. "That's the disease of our profession, isn't
it? Endless fretting about posterity. What we do on
the stage is gone so quickly-was
"Too quickly," Edward agreed.
"Believe me, your boldness is an inspiration.
You've given all of us who support the cause a
mark to emulate. Somehow I shall, I promise you.
Again, sir-it's been an honor." He bowed
to Fan. "Mrs. Lamont-a pleasure."
"For me as well, Mr. Booth," Fan
murmured. In the bedroom, Gideon and Jeremiah
were arguing good- naturedly. Edward picked up his
cane and hobbled to the door with his visitor:
"Seriously, Booth-you've a first-class
reputation. You should think about playing
Washington. You haven't thus far, have you?"
"No. But I'd rather make a debut when
Washington's
The Titans277
a Confederate town. Perhaps I'll be able to do it
soon. The city's sure to be invaded."
"There's every indication," Edward nodded.
"Then both of us have cause for rejoicing." Booth opened
the door. "I wish your son success in his
military venture, Mrs. Lamont. You did
say he'd enlisted in a volunteer unit-?"
"That's right. He hasn't been back long enough
to give us the details, though."
Gaslight put pale pinpoints in Booth's
eyes. He posed in the doorway like a performer
reluctant for the curtain calls to end. "I
admire your son-just as I admire your husband."
Edward waved with false modesty. "I'm only
sorry my injuries and the cowardice of the management
led to my being removed from the bill after my first-and
last-appearance."
"One eternally memorable performance is better than
a thousand forgotten ones, Mr. Lamont." He
touched the brim of his hat "Good evening."
ii
After the door closed, Fan said, "My, he's
certainly good-looking. And glib. An immense
ego, though. He seems to have an obsession about
posterity."
"Oh, come," Edward chided as he made his way
slowly back to his chair. "It's a passion with every
actor. You should know that by now. We all wonder
whether anyone will remember our names ten minutes after
we die-was Leaning on the chair, he added, "I
suppose we should think about dinner."
"m see whether Gideon's ready."
Before she could reach the bedroom, the door burst open.
Jeremiah came running into the parlor-backward:
"Gideon's got a girl! Gideon's got a
girl!"
278AccusNot
Gideon Kent chased his brother across the room and
made a feint with his fist:
"Be quiet or I'll box your ears!" To Fan:
"Mama, do you realize you've raised a blabbing
brat?" But he said it with a grin.
"He told me, Ma! He met a girl in
Richmond. That's why he was bellering that silly
love song."
"Nonsense!" Gideon retorted. But his
cheeks were flushed. How handsome he is! Fan thought
Gideon Kent was a tall young man-hVd be
eighteen in June-with a lean, supple body,
powerful shoulders and merry blue eyes. He'd
razored the stubble from his tanned cheeks. Droplets
of water glistened in freshly combed hair the color
of a lion's mane.
He'd replaced his travel clothing with spotless
trousers of white linen duck and a clean shirt dyed
nut- brown. His leather boots still gave off little
puffs of dust as he moved to the center of the room.
There was a touch of swagger in his walk; a hint of the
Virginia temperament that had come down to him from his
paternal great-grandmother.
Fan had seldom seen him in such good spirits. Though
war was hardly the gentleman's sport he imagined
it to be, she was grateful he'd finally found something
to which he could give himself with enthusiasm. All her
past attempts to get him to study had been
futile, even though he showed an aptitude for
becoming expert at whatever he chose to do.
Unfortunately the only things he liked were
horseback riding and outdoor work. Physical
work. He'd helped her father for months at a time
while the rest of the family traveled with
Edward. His one term at Washington College in
Lexington had been a disaster. He'd failed every
subject-though not for lack of intelligence, his letter of
dismissal reported. He just had no interest in
sedentary activities.
He rubbed his hands together. "Lord, I'm starved.
Everyone ready to-his Oh." He turned to Fan.
"The letter
The Titans279
from Matt. Will you bring it along to the dining room,
Mama?"
Edward waved his cane. "We have plenty of time
to get to the dining room. At least give us a hint of
what happened in Richmond."
Fan smiled. "I also want to hear about this young
lady."
Gideon turned scarlet again. "There's nothing
to tell." His denial said just the opposite. "She's
just a girl who works part time in her aunt's
dressmaking shop and part time in a store where I went
to buy a book."
"My heavens," Fan feigned awe. "You bought a
book? To read?"
"What is it?" Edward asked.
Gideon plopped himself down on the
footstool, realizing he'd have to go hungry a little
while longer. "The Trooper's Manual
by Colonel Lucius Davis. The captain in
charge of our volunteer company said every recruit
needs a copy as much as he needs a horse. The
book's all about cavalry operations. It's
adapted from the Pointsett Tactics, the book the
Federals use."
"Ma, he's changing the subject," Jeremiah
complained. "He's supposed to tell us about the
girl. Make him!"
"All right, I'll tell you-but you keep quiet,
Jeremiah Kent, or I'll dump you upside
down in the jakes."
"Gideon!" Fan exclaimed.
Jeremiah stuck out his tongue. "Dare you!"
Edward laughed. "The girl-the girl!"
Gideon looked embarrassed. "Well, she's
pretty and lively and her name's Margaret. She's
lived in Richmond at least ten years, though I'm
not sure she's a hundred percent behind the South.
We got into quite a hot discussion about whether a state
has the right to secede. Of course I said yes. But
she said-was
"I'm surprised you'd fancy a girl with
Union sympathies," Edward interrupted.
280AccusNot
"I don't fancy her, sir. I just found
her-well-pert and pretty and-was
"She sounds like a damned submissionist to me!
Ready to give in to Lincoln's threats."
"Let him finish, Edward," Fan said softly.
"If she is a submissionist, I'd like to change
her thinking. But-was Flustered, he exclaimed,
"Oh, hell."
"Gideon!"
"I'm sorry, Mama. But you're all making more of
it than you should." His blue eyes looked angry.
How typical his reaction was, Fan thought with
mixed chagrin and pride. That rebellious streak had
drawn him to someone who challenged his beliefs. If
the young lady had agreed with everything he'd said, no
doubt he wouldn't have shown the slightest interest.
And despite his protests, Gideon's pink face
revealed that the wondrous, unfathomable chemistry of
romance had affected him at last. She mustn't be
too harsh. Nor permit Edward to be. She
remembered how deliciously giddy she'd felt when
she was young and being wooed by Jephtha. A touch, a
glance became sublime experiences. The
special feelings between a boy and a girl could never be
rationally explained, nor should they be openly tampered
with by prying parents.
Gideon seemed to feel a further explanation was
required, though:
"Actually, I don't expect IT! have much chance
to see Margaret. As soon as the Virginia state
forces get organized, my troop will probably
leave Richmond for training somewhere else. They say
Colonel Lee will be in charge of the disposition of the
volunteers."
"But he's in the Federal army!" Fan said.
Edward shook his head. "I heard in the bar that he was
closeted yesterday with that power-crazy Francis
Blair. Then he went to see General Scott.
I'll wager he'll resign if he hasn't
already."
Jeremiah sat cross-legged at his brother's
feet. "This
The Titans281
love stuff isn't as interesting as I thought. Tell
us about your horse troop."
Gideon looked relieved. Edward, however,
wasn't ready to drop the first subject:
"This young woman's submissionist leanings
raise a question. Is there still any support for the
Union in Richmond?"
"Some. The secession vote was nowhere near
unanimous. Of course, ever since Sumter
surrendered, there've been parades-thousands of people
tramping the streets with torches and illuminated
boxes with pictures of Jeff Davis all over
them. There's an orator on practically every
corner. A few of them argue against secession.
That's how I got into the fight with-was
Abruptly, he stopped.
"The fight?" Fan repeated.
"Don't sound so shocked, Mama. It was nothing
serious. I punched a loud-mouth cheering for a
submissionist speaker. If I hadn't done it,
someone else would have. The man on the box said the
South couldn't possibly match the North in terms
of factories or numbers of people and that we'd all be
destroyed. I spoke up and said one Virginian
could whip ten abolitionist soldiers. The fellow
next to me-uh-disagreed. We settled the question, that's
all."
"Settled it how?" Edward asked.
Gideon's eyes sparkled. "In my favor."
Edward whacked his chair with the cane.
"Capital!"
Fan wasn't so pleased:
"You shouldn't let that temper of yours get the best of
you, Gideon."
"Mama, it's temper-spirit-that's going to help us win.
Believe me, I didn't get a scratch. Can
we go eat?"
"As soon as we hear about your unit," Edward said.
"I could tell you in the dining room-was
"The dining room's too public. Too many
strangers
282AccusNot
listening. You're not volunteering to serve the local
government, after all. How did you find your
troop?"
Gideon sighed. "Through the Examiner. The papers
are full of advertisements from units trying to fill
their last vacancies. The ads make it sound as if
you might not get in. 'Only a few qualified
applicants will be accepted." What they really
mean is, do you own a gun or a horse, or both?
I'll be damned-uh-I refuse to go dragging around
in the infantry, so I answered the notice
published by Captain Macomb." Fan said,
"Captain who?"
"Macomb. The gentleman organizing Macomb's
Hussars."
"What's a hussar?" Jeremiah wanted to know.
"A mounted soldier, you ninny!" Gideon drove
a soft punch against his younger brother's head. "Then
why don't they call it Macomb's cavalry?"
"Too dull. All the horse troops in
Richmond are hussars or lancers or
rangers-something fancy. The infantry doesn't go
in for plain names either. There are tiger companies,
wildcat companies. Hornets. Raccoon
Roughs-was
Jeremiah leaned forward. "Have you got a uniform?"
"I will have." "What's it look like?"
"Haven't seen it. You can bet it'll be
magnificent, though. Hussars always wear
impressive uniforms." "Do you have to buy the
uniform?" Fan asked. Gideon shook his head.
"Captain Macomb's furnishing them."
Jeremiah whistled. "Sounds like you're Sn a rich
man's outfit."
"No, Macomb said the others are mostly farmer
boys. Not from the plantations. From smaller places,
like Grandpa Virgil's."
Edward said, "Does this Macomb know
anything about soldiering?"
The Titans283
"Yes, he's a former Federal officer. After the
Mexican war, he opened a wholesale yard goods
business in Richmond. He knows where to get
material for the uniforms at very favorable prices."
"Then you're in with a bunch of poor boys,"
Jeremiah said.
"Will you stop? Macomb's Hussars are good,
solid Virginians. We won't be like some of the
high-toned horse troops, with every man bringing his own
nigra to look after him. But we'll have fine
horses-we'll be a great unit!"
Somehow, his ebullience touched a chord of dread in
Fan. How gay he made it sound! Obviously
he was caught up in the pervading mood of
Richmond. But one day, the romance and zest might
disappear, replaced by the harsh reality of men fighting
and killing each other. She was proud of his
enthusiasm. She prayed reality wouldn't be too
disillusioning. Or lead to injury. To dea- Don't
think about that.
Gideon spoke to her: "Grandpa Virgil win
let me have one of his stallions, won't he? If
he doesn't, Ma- comb won't take
me."
With a heavy feeling in her breast, Fan replied,
"I'm sure Papa will give you one of his finest.
Proudly."
"Then I'm in!" Gideon jumped up. "Now can
we get some food? I'm damn near as hungry as
the poor nag I turned in at the stable."
Fan was disturbed by the profanity that had slipped
into his vocabulary while he was away. Another
sign of his manhood, she thought; a saddening reminder
that he was growing up. Growing away from her-
She decided to say nothing. Another, more delicate
subject remained to be broached:
"We'll go in just a moment First, I have one more bit
of news to convey." "What's that?"
284AccusNot
"As you know, your-was
She glanced at Edward. His look seemed
to encourage her.
"comyour father is here in Washington."
Gideon's face clouded. He was clearly
uncertain about what his response should be. She went
on:
"He was at the theater Tuesday night when Edward
spoke to the crowd."
"Sang Dixie's Land," Gideon grinned.
"Jeremiah told me. That was a brave thing to do,
sir." Edward responded with a preening smile.
"I want to tell you everything that happened," Fan
said. She described how Jephtha had helped
Edward escape from a Union sympathizer who had
been trying to punish him for proclaiming his
political sympathies. "Your father acted in a
brave and humane way, Gideon. He endangered
himself to aid Edward. We owe him a debt for that He
very much wants to see you-you and Jeremiah."
Gideon's eyes remained troubled. Fan knew
he must be churning inside. As the eldest, he would
remember the bitter scenes in Lexington more
vividly than the other boys. Hesitantly, he
said:
"I've never thought highly of my father, you know-was
"I realize. Much of that's my fault."
"And mine," Edward murmured.
"Even though he's on the other side and always wfll
be, he's an flbnorable man. I think you should
see him." She glanced at Jeremiah. "Both of
you."
The younger boy seemed agreeable. To help persuade
Gideon, she added:
"Edward doesn't object"
"No, no, not at all!"
"Well-was Gideon shrugged. "I suppose it's
all right Sometimes I am curious about him-was
"He's mellowed a good deal since he left
Lexington," Fan said. "I mean personally, not
politically. He doesn't
The Titans285
conceal his feelings about Fort Sumter or secession.
If he comes here, I wouldn't want you to lose your
temper over some chance remark."
Again Gideon shrugged. I'll do my best. I'll
try to remember he's my father, not just one of those
damned-those abolitionists."
With a relieved sigh, Fan squeezed his shoulder.
"Good. I promised to send him a note as soon as
you arrived."
"He might be a long time answering it," Edward
mused.
Puzzled, Fan asked, "What do you mean?"
"Oh-was A quick bob of the head; a charming smile.
"comonly that reporters are busy folk these days.
And we should leave Washington City soon-he warned
us about that. General Scott's liable to close the
bridges at any time."
"I'll write the note as soon as we finish
dinner. Shall we go?"
"Yes, before I pass out." Gideon put his arm
around her. They started at the sound of a fist hammering
on the hall door.
Concerned, Edward struggled to his feet. "Another
caller? I'm not expecting anyone-was
Fan hurried to answer. The instant she opened the
door, she went rigid:
"Jephtha?"
"How the devil-?" Fan and the boys didn't see
the color drain from Edward's cheeks. They were staring
at the wild-eyed man in the doorway. He pushed
Fan aside and stormed into the room.
What in God's name had happened to him? Fan thought
as she closed the door. His black suit was filthy
and torn. And his face-His face was terrifying.
Scowling, Gideon jumped up. Jeremiah stepped
behind his brother. Jephtha looked at his youngest son,
286AccusNot
then at Gideon, who was nearly a match for his own
height Fan thought she saw his stark eyes soften a
moment:
"Gideon-Jeremiah-I'm sorry to meet you again
under such circumstances. I think it would be
better if you both went into the next room."
Confused and red-faced, Gideon shot back,
"Why?"
"Because I ask you!"
"See here, Kent!" Edward said. "This is the
damnedest, most insulting performance I've ever-was
Jephtha whirled on him. "Is it, now? I
don't doubt you're surprised I'm here at
all."
"You have no right to speak to him that way!" Gideon
shouted. Jephtha blinked twice, stung by his
son's rage. But his voice remained stern:
"I have things to say to your mother and stepfather which I'd
prefer you didn't hear."
Fighting for control, Gideon gave Jephtha a
scornful look:
"I'll thank you not to treat me like some three-day
foal. You forget how old I am. Old enough to join
a mounted company in Richmond. I think I can bear
whatever it is you have to say."
The contempt made Jephtha hesitate:
"Yes, I-I realize you're grown. Nevertheless,
I see no point in your staying. My remarks to your
mother and Mr. Lamont won't be pleasant."
"Jephtha-was Fan rushed toward him.
"What's wrong? Why are you so furious with-V
"'Don't tell me you don't know, Fan.
Don't lie to me one more timel"
He looked at her with such fury and loathing, she
wanted to hide her face.
The Titans287
For several seconds, no one moved. Jephtha's
eyes shifted to Edward, accusing. Gideon's scowl
deepened. Of them all, only Jeremiah had the good
sense to get out of the way. Slowly and soundlessly, he
inched toward the settee, his frightened gaze fixed on
his father. All of them understood something ugly was loose
in the gas lit parlor.
Finally, Jephtha spoke again, this time more quietly,
but still with scathing bitterness:
"Fan, I must compliment you on your remarkable
performance Tuesday evening. You've become almost as
good at acting as this charlatan you married."
"Damn you!" Gideon shouted. "Don't say such
things about-was
Edward cut him short with a slashing motion of the
gutta-percha cane:
"Be still. Let him rave till we discover what this
is all about."
"It's about my trip to Baltimore today."
Jephtha paused. The tick of the mantel clock
sounded thunderous. "Baltimore, Mr. Lamont.
Where the Sixth Massachusetts infantry was
attacked by a hostile mob. In the mob I saw a
clerk who worked at the War Department until
yesterday. A clerk named Josiah Cheever."
Edward's frozen expression never changed. "You're
still not making sense."
"Is that so? Then follow me a little further. To the
point where I saw Cheever on President
Street in Baltimore comj as I saw him in the
audience at Canterbury Hall Tuesday.
Cheever had a red-bearded roughneck with him today.
They were watching me."
Edward sighed; said to Fan:
288AccusNot
"My dear, I think your former husband is suffering
some sort of persecution mania."
Jephtha whipped the four-barrel pepperbox from his
pocket. "Shut your mouth and listen?"'
The actor's face whitened. Gideon threw his mother
a desperate glance: a plea for an explanation;
for a hint of what he should do. But Fan's eyes were
focused on the gun aimed at Edward.
"When-was Jephtha used his free hand
to wipe his perspiring upper lip. "comwhen the crowd
turned on the troops, the red-bearded man sneaked
up behind me. Tried to put a knife in my back.
Tried to murder me, Lamont. Now do you begin
to understand?"
Edward shook his head. "Not at all." His voice
was calm. But he too watched the pepperbox in
Jephtha's unsteady hand.
Jephtha sneered. "You're going to force me
to explain in front of the boys? Very well-was He
touched the rip in his coat. "This is where the man's
knife hit me first. Luckily, he didn't get
a second chance. I got away from him. On the
train coming back here, certain things became
clear-principally that I was an imbecile to accept
thanks for what I did Tuesday night I was
completely taken in by your professions of
gratitude, Lamont. You're good at your
craft. You very ably concealed your hatred of me."
He swung to Fan. "Both of you did."
"Jephtha, you've gone insane!" she protested.
"To the contrary. My only moment of insanity was the
moment I began to believe your pretty words about
forgiveness. Your explanations of how you'd changed.
You haven't changed. You're even more
vicious and devious than you were when you drove me out
of my own house and turned my sons against me."
Gideon took a step forward. "I've had enough of
this. Put that gun down."
"Please, Gideon," Jephtha said. "Don't
involve
The Titans289
yourself. I'm sure you had no part in their scheming. I
don't want to hurt you accidentally-was
"Then stop making crazy accusations!"
Jephtha shook his head. Tin afraid that's
impossible. Your stepfather is a very clever fellow.
I discovered conclusive proof tonight, after I saw a
contact at the War Department. He informed me that
among those with whom Josiah Cheever was seen in
public this week was Mr. Lamont here. My
contact observed them twice in the Bar of this very
hotel. Cheever's presence at Canterbury
Hall was no accident. He and your father are friends.
Or should I say conspirators?"
Losing a little of his aplomb, Edward waved his
cane:
"Of course I know Cheever! I know a great
number of local people who share my political
views!"
"How many do you know who were also in Baltimore this
noon? Just one, I think."
Fan listened to Jephtha's venomous words, her mouth
dry, her stomach hurting. She'd never seen such
rage in a man's eyes.
"Where I was foolish-was His voice dropped to a
whisper as he faced her. "comwhere I was monumentally
foolish was to be taken in by your little performance. Your
husband coached you, I don't doubt. I was also a
fool to swallow the note you wrote, Lamont. A
note pouring out your thanks. A note that included a
little token of your deep, deep gratitude!-the
suggestion that I might find it worthwhile to go
to Baltimore when the troops came through. I might
witness an important news event! I took the
bait. Cheever then went to Baltimore comperh he
even followed me. Boarded the same tram I
did. I was paying no attention. But I'm sure
he was on President Street for a double purpose.
To help stir up the crowd. And to hire a man
to kill me."
Now Edward looked genuinely shaken. Still eyeing the
pepperbox, he said to Fan:
290AccusNot
"Of course I wrote him a note. I
did want to express my thanks. But the rest is
a complete fabrication!"
"Goddamn you for a Karl" Jephtha shouted.
"Stop it-stopl" Fan cried, lunging at him.
Edward dragged her back:
"Stay away from him! He's deranged-n
"For a time, I thought so myself," Jephtha nodded.
Then it fell together. Cheever. The note. The
motive-was
"Edward-was Fan's eyes blurred as she looked
at him. "You never showed me the note."
"I'd show it to you if I could," Jephtha snarled.
Quietly, Edward asked, "You mean to say you
don't have it with you?"
"I left it on my desk at the Star. The sweep
disposes of anything that falls on the floor.
Evidently that happened to the note. But I don't
need it. I remember every word. Especially your
suggestion about Baltimore."
Fan gripped her husband's arm. "He can't be
telling the truth-was
"Spare me the play-acting-to " Jephtha began.
Edward interrupted:
"He isn't." He brushed at his dark hair.
"I sent the note to his office by a nigger
boy. In the note I thanked him. Sincerely. The
rest is invented-for Christ knows what malicious
purpose. I said nothing about Baltimore.
Absolutely nothing."
"He's lying again," Jephtha said. "But then-was A
ragged gulp of air. "You both know that."
"No, I don't-was dorita Fan burst
into tears. "Dear God, I can't comprehend what's
caused all this-to "
"Your hate," Jephtha whispered. "Your hate and the
money."
Fan's head jerked up. "W-what?"
"The money," Jephtha repeated. "The California
mining money Gideon and Matt and Jeremiah will
inherit after my death. The money you've always been so
concerned about, Fan. Surely you haven't forgotten
The Titans291
Lexington so soon? Surely you remember saying
I'd defrauded my own sons by letting Amanda
manage the income? You remembered it Tuesday
night-was
His sarcasm made her cringe. "I also told you I
regretted every word!"
"You were lying. Acting."
"Jephtha, I swear to heaven-was
"You also told me your precious husband was worried
about the money. That was a little slip, I suppose.
But it shed light on why you'd try to have me killed.
To make sure I don't change-my mind about
giving the boys their inheritance. Or perhaps you and
Lamont want the money yourselves. Well, that's of
no consequence. The motive is clear. And it
explains everything. Even why you both came
to Washington. The Canterbury Hall speech was
secondary. I was the real target. You went to a
great deal of unnecessary trouble. The boys will still get the
money when I die-of natural causes, I
trust. I assume there'll be no more little plots now
that this one's been dragged into the open. It's you who
disappoints me the most, Fan. I-was
His shoulders slumped. "I just wouldn't have thought you could
sneak so low."
"Kent, Kent-to " Edward sounded like a weary father
pleading with a hysterical child. "comdon't say such things
to her. Every word is false and you know it. I never
plotted with Cheever. I never urged you to go
to Baltimore--"
Fan tried to steady herself by planting her feet wide
apart beneath her skirts. She wiped her tear-reddened
cheeks. Tried to talk to Jephtha
rationally:
"What's done this to you? What's put all this into your
head? If Edward says he's never meant you any
harm, believe him! I do."
Silence. Heavy, hideous silence.
Fan glanced at Gideon, alarmed anew by the
wrath
292AccusNot
in his blue eyes. She hoped her glance would
communicate her plea.
Hold your temper. Don't make things worse
than they are.
And they were terrible indeed. Somehow Jephtha had been
warped by his fears, his political biases, his
long- buried animosity-and his derangement had come
spilling out in the dreadful, distorted tale of a
scheme to murder him.
"So you believe him, do you?"
Jephtha's long black hair shone in the
gaslight. His pale eyes glared. He took one
swift step and slapped her face.
"You deceiving slutf
Gideon leaped for his father's throat.
iv
Afterward, she remembered only isolated
bits of the rest of it:
Jeremiah wailing in fright.
Jephtha's startled cry as Gideon caught him
by the neck:
"A crazy man, that's what you are! A crazy
goddamned Yankee fanatic-was
Staggered by Jephtha's blow, she'd sprawled on the
floor. From there, she saw Gideon let go of his
father, snatch Edward's cane, whip it down on
Jephtha's gun wrist The pepperbox thudded on the
carpet. Edward kicked it away.
Gideon tried to strike his father a second time.
Dodging the cane, Jephtha stumbled. Fell to one
knee. She remembered the anguish on his face as
his tall, blue- eyed son came at him again,
cane flailing-
The cane struck Jephtha's neck with a whipping
sound.
The Titans293
"Just as crazy-mean as I always heard you were-to "
Whip.
"You can't call my mother filthy names!"
Whip.
Jephtha raised his hands:
"Gideon, I only want to protect
what's yours, I-was"
Whip. Jephtha cried aloud, his cheek laid
open.
Gideon's next blow broke the cane over
Jephtha's head. He sprawled face first on the
carpet, groaning. Dizzy and sick at her
stomach, Fan tried to get to her feet. Edward
caught her as she fell and gasped:
"Don't, Gideon!"
But Gideon had his fist tangled in his father's
hair. He dragged Jephtha's head up.
"Boy-listen to your mother!" Edward stepped toward him
speaking loudly. "You've done enough. Just- get him
out of here!"
Then darkness blurred Fan's sight. She felt
herself falling again; felt Edward's arms supporting
her-
When she awoke, she was in her bed. Edward knelt
in the glow of a bedside lamp, mopping her brow with a
moistened cloth. Then he pressed a goblet to her
lips; forced whiskey down her throat.
"Drink it all. You'll feel better."
"Jephtha. Is Jephtha-?"
"He's gone. Gideon took him out"
"Edward-was
"What is it, sweetheart?"
"You didn't-in the note-mention Baltimore-was
"My God-was Edward shuddered, squeezing his eyes
shut. The lamp flung his huge shadow on the
ceiling. "I may hate the Yankees, Fan. But
I'm not a murderer. There wasn't a single
reference to Baltimore in that note."
He kissed her cheek. His lips were warm;
reassuring.
"I." Fan started to drift off. "comI had no
idea he hated me so. No idea he could invent
such a-was
294AccusNot
She couldn't go on.
"A sick mind," Edward said, his tone deep and
sad. "They say it sometimes happens to preachers who
give up the cloth."
Another shadow writhed on the ceiling. Boots
thumped across the floor. Fan saw Gideon in the
lamplight, his tawny hair disarrayed. His face
softened as he gazed down at her.
She tried to rise on her elbows. "You
didn't-hurt him any more, did you?"
"No, Mama. I'd have liked to. But I
didn't. I carried him down the back
way, told the nigra porter to mind his own business
and left him in the alley."
"Was he-awake?"
"I don't know and care less." Gideon's eyes
shone like blue stones. "I dumped him two feet from
a mongrel hunting garbage. That's where he belongs.
With his own kind. Let him keep his damn money!"
Edward twisted around to stare up at the boy, a frown
on his face. His lips opened. But he didn't
say whatever had come to mind.
Grateful for the lulling effect of the whiskey, Fan
closed her eyes. In her mind, she still saw
Jephtha; dirty; foul-talking; poisoned with
hatred. She should hate huii in turn. But she
grieved for him. He was so lost. She was the one who
had been deceived on Tuesday. Deceived by his
remarkable control; his feigned tenderness-
Face bright as an illuminated coin in the
lamplight, Gideon repeated softly:
"Let him keep his goddamn Yankee money, the
crazy man."
She didn't hear.
CHAPTER XI
Behold the Darkness
AT FIVE MINUTES PAST
MIDNIGHT,
a key rattled in the front door.
Molly jumped up from her chair in the sitting
room. She heard the key drop on the porch. Then
someone cursed.
The key was inserted again. It took another half
minute for the door to open.
She smelled him first. The alcohol fumes were
overpowering. When he appeared in the hallway, she
exclaimed:
"Oh, Lord, Jephtha-I've been worried out of
my mind!" She hurried to him. "We heard about the
rioting in Baltimore."
Slowly, as if waking, he focused his attention on
her. The hall gaslight revealed lash marks on his
cheek. A rip in his black coat. His pale
eyes were so stark and forlorn, she hesitated to ask
what had happened.
His speech was thick: "I got caught in some of it.
Horrible business-was He brushed his fingers across the
back of his neck, where she saw a livid red line.
"Lost your gun, I'm sorry to say."
"The boarders haven't talked of anything but the riot
all evening. Half of them are scared as little
babies. They say Washington's sure
to be invaded over the weekend. Mr.
Swampscott's already packed. In the morning he's
taking the first northbound train."
"Wise," he mumbled. "Very wise."

296Behold the Darkness
She slipped her arms around his waist; pressed her
cheek to his shoulder. "Come upstairs and let me
dress those cuts."
"Not neces-necessary." He had trouble enunciating.
"I stopped at Willard's for a dose of internal
medicine."
"I know the special train carrying the Sixth
Massachusetts arrivebled late this afternoon. I
couldn't imagine why you'd take so long to come
home-was
Sudden anger:
"I had to file my dispatch! For Christ's sake,
Molly, I work for a living, remember?"
Her stomach spasmed. It was unbelievable to see
him this drunk. Unbelievable to hear him take the
name of Jesus in vain. He drank-but seldom
to excess. He cursed-but he never invoked God
or the Saviour in anger.
He licked his lips. Muttered:
"Cuts aren't bad. I'll wash up by myself, I'm
pretty tired-was
"Won't you let me help?"
He flung off her hand. "Leave me alone,
Molly. Just leave me alone tonight."
Staggering, he turned to the stairs. He stumbled and
swore. Stumbled again halfway up. With her
knuckles pressed to her lips, she listened until
the door of his room slammed.
Something dreadful had happened to him. Was it seeing the
Baltimore riot? Had that caused his vacant,
hopeless look?
She could think of no other explanation.
She paced the sitting room for ten minutes. Finally
she put out the gas and went upstairs, her mouth set
in a determined line. She had to find out what was
wrong.
Three times, she knocked on the door of his
bedroom, called his name softly and waited.
No answer.
The Titans297
Anxious and miserable, she walked slowly back
to her own room,
a
She slept poorly the rest of the night.
Just as a gray, sunless dawn was breaking, she rose
wearily and dressed.
Once more she knocked at Jephtha's door.
Once more there was no reply.
She tried the knob. Unlocked.
She looked in. The room was empty. The bed
hadn't been slept in.
On top of a pile of books, she noticed the red-
covered Testament she'd returned after she'd found it
by her bedside Tuesday morning. That's the cause!
she thought suddenly. I gave him the book.
Encouraged him to read it-
Guilt overwhelmed her as she remembered the
underscored passage from the Beatitudes. "Blessed
are the peacemakers: for they shall be catted the children of
God."
The violence in Baltimore had made a mockery
of those words. It must have been too much for him to bear.
I tried to help prepare him to meet his wife, and
this is the result.
I did it to him.
I'M TO BLAME-
She rushed downstairs to search for him, but he was
gone.
298Behold the Darkness
All that Saturday, Jephtha moved through the
turmoil of Washington like a sleepwalker.
He forced himself to unlock the Evening Star's front
door with the key Mr. Wallach allowed him. He
forced himself to sit down at his desk as the gray dawn
brightened. He'd lied to Molly last night. He'd
sent no dispatch to New York. This morning, he was
obligated to write one.
He tore up a dozen foolscap sheets before he
got a satisfactory first sentence. His mind kept
replacing the paper with an image of Gideon's
wrathful face. He felt the blows of the cane-
Was he mad? Had he imagined the plot against his
life?
No! Lamont had urged him to go to Baltimore.
If he hadn't misplaced the note, he could
prove-
Prove it to whom? To Fan? She knew about it!
She'd paved the way for his unthinking acceptance of the
note. All the forgiving words Tuesday night had
been rehearsed, to lull him into accepting Lamont's
bait-
The eyes of the boys haunted him.
Jeremiah's-full of fear.
Gideon's-full of venom.
Gideon will believe them, not me. Perhaps if I
hadn't lost my temper-or had the note-
Why think about it? Nothing could be changed now. He just
hadn't realized how much they despised him. Or how
desperately they wanted the money.
He thought of Monday night. Poring over the
Testament until dawn. Trying to find the strength
to forgive them-
What a waste. What a pathetic waste.
Silently, he damned Fan and her husband again.
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Then damned himself for his foolish faith in them-and in the
Testament. He ripped the sheet on which he'd finally
penciled a decent opening. He threw both halves
on the floor.
For about five minutes, he sat motionless. Then,
by sheer force of will, he bent and retrieved the pieces
of paper. He edged them together with unsteady hands.
He didn't care about Fan any longer. He
didn't care about that bastard Lamont. But he cared
about his sons.
And he'd lost them.
Forever.
A key clicked in the front door. He rubbed his
eyes, hastily located a fresh sheet and
began to recopy the lead sentence. Van Dyne
hurried in, looking fatigued:
"Hello, Jephtha. Didn't know anyone was here
yet. They've burned the bridges."
Jephtha's head jerked up. "To Virginia?"
"The railroad bridges in Baltimore. The
city Police Board met around midnight. They
don't want any more troops passing through the city.
They're afraid of an even worse riot next
time-was
The reporter sat down at his desk; scratched his
unshaven chin. "Governor Hicks is sending a
delegation to report the action to the President."
"How did you find out?"
"I met the early freight at the depot."
"I thought you said the bridges were burned."
"North of Baltimore-north"
"Oh."
"The line from Harper's Ferry to Relay House is
useless, too. The rebels captured the town and the
arsenal."
"So we're really cut off."
"That's right." Van Dyne yawned. Finally he
noticed Jephtha's face. "Jesus, who marked
you up?"
"I was in Baltimore yesterday."
Enviously: "In the middle of things?"
Jephtha nodded. "I-was Aimlessly, he touched the
300Behold the Darkness
halves of the torn sheet "comI've been trying
to put a piece together-was
"How were you lucky enough to be there when it happened?"
"A hunch," Jephtha lied. "Everyone's been
saying there'd be trouble."
"That'll be a nice coup for the Union"
"Yes, won't it? That's certainly very important
now."
The bitter answer made Van Dyne frown. But
he refrained from comment. Instead, he offered advice:
"I'd get the piece on the wire as quickly as you
can."
"Why?"
"The crew on the freight train said the rebels have
gone wild in Baltimore. They're calling
yesterday a great victory for the South. There's a
lot of talk about seizing the telegraph offices."
"I see. I guess I'd better get to work."
He picked up a pencil and tried to think of a
second sentence. Again he was distracted-this time
by Van Dyne's news.
Bridges burned. Harper's Ferry gone. The
telegraph lines threatened. The darkness falling on
Washington was nearly as deep as the darkness in his own
soul.
Hunched at the desk, he fought his way through a
second sentence. A third. Gradually, the words
began to flow a little faster. But his pain and heartbreak
didn't lessen.
A quiet madness spread through Washington City that
April weekend. To keep busy, Jephtha
trudged from department to department; from the Capitol to the
Navy Yard; from the B and O station to the
hotels-all except the National.
After each foray, he stopped at the Star long enough
The Titans301
to scrawl a few paragraphs and rush them to the
telegraph office.
On Saturday and Sunday, the hotels emptied of
all but a few die-hards. All the trains for
Baltimore were packed. Seventeenth Street was
hub to hub with wagon traffic during the daylight
hours. Families with their goods swarmed to the
presumed safety of what was still, despite the
Baltimore blood-letting, the North.
An exodus was underway in the other
direction, too. Hacks and carriages, farm
wagons and drayman's trucks heaped with
furniture rattled over the Long Bridge, the
Navy Yard Bridge, Benning's Bridge, the
Georgetown Aqueduct. About the only people
Jephtha saw on the streets were riffraff and
drilling soldiers.
Despite his deteriorated health, General
Scott visited the presidential mansion both
days. Jephtha could learn nothing about the purpose
of the visits. All reporters were denied admittance
to the mansion.
Saturday night, he returned quite late to the G
Street boarding house. He went straight to his
room without looking for Molly. He locked his
door and pulled the wrapping paper off a full
bottle of bourbon.
Several times during the night, Molly knocked.
He didn't answer. He drank and stared at the
Testament. Sunday, he again rose before dawn. He
encountered Molly downstairs; she was waiting for him.
He was forced to talk to her, but he restricted the
conversation to information he'd picked up on his rounds.
He said nothing about the scene at the National. He
couldn't bring himself to admit he'd been
beaten by his own son. Besides, she'd tried so hard
to help him. To tell her the effort had been wasted
would have hurt her. He cared for her too much to do that.
He suspected she didn't believe his explanation
about
why he'd looked so terrible when he came home after
midnight Friday. Mercifully, she didn't
press the issue.
Hour by hour, the situation in Washington grew
302Behold the Darknandness
grimmer. He watched wagons unloading beans,
pork, sugar and flour at the Post Office and the
Treasury- provisions for the Rhode Island and
New York troops, if they ever arrived.
After a brief rain shower, he watched traffic
clog the muddy streets again. Women hugged children
while their husbands whipped straining animals.
Fights broke out when long lines of vehicles
stalled because of a breakdown several blocks ahead.
He watched militiamen building sandbag breastworks
in President's Park, and he watched a bizarre
muster on the Mall. Several dozen old men-a
number of whom said they'd served in the War of
1812-had emerged from their boarding house rooms with
antique pistols and rusty swords. They
were organizing once more-an utterly useless defense
unit called, rather sadly and appropriately, the
Silver Grays.
When he stopped at the Kirkwood, he found the
hotel's dining room empty save for one guest The
man picking at a solitary meal was Mr.
Hannibal Hamlin, former Democrat, former
Senator from Maine, and now Vice President of the
United States.
As Hamlin glanced up, Jephtha darted back out
of sight. He comwasn't embarrassed about being seen.
He was embarrassed for the Vice President, who was
dining alone, his company unwanted and his counsel
unsought by anyone in the government
He stopped at Willard's saloon bar. In
view of the crisis, the hotel had relaxed its
restrictions on Sunday liquor sales. There were
more men present than he'd expected; men whose
circumstances or loyalties wouldn't permit them
to join the flight of those who feared for then" lives-or
those who were going home to take arms against the government
they'd served.
On the faces of the hard-drinking men, Jephtha saw
fear. He heard it in the half-truths and
speculations they voiced:
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"Abe and the Navy Secretary are fiery mad about
Davis down in Montgomery."
"What'd he do now?"
"Announced that letters of marque wfll be issued
to ships joining the Confederacy."
Another man snorted. "Trying to float a
pirate fleet, is he?"
A fourth was equally scornful: "Welles and
Lincoln are damn fools. That proclamation
yesterday about a blockade of Southern ports is
nonsense. There aren't fifty steam warships in the
whole Navy, and most of the best ones were caught on
foreign station when Old Bory took Sumter.
What'n hell's Abe going to use to enforce a
blockade? Dinghys?"
Laughter. Jephtha ordered a second double
whiskey as a new speaker said:
"Even with plenty of ships, a blockade's
impossible. You've got thirty-five hundred
miles of coast from here to the Rio Grande-a hell
of a lot more if you count the inland sounds all the way
to the Floridas. Throw in rivers and bays and
coves-all the navies in the world couldn't make it
work!"
Jephtha drifted down the bar, sipping and listening.
"Got it straight from my cousin! A secesh
group's gonna start fires all over town tonight.
To signal the Virginia army to come on in!"
"Ben Butler's at Annapolis. He landed this
afternoon with the Eighth Massachusetts."
"Bullshit! How do you know?"
"I work at the War Department, I ought to know!"
"Well, I don't believe you."
"Dammit, Butler's there! The Seventh New
York's coming, too. And the Rhode Island boys."
"I still say bullshit Annapolis is only forty
miles away!"
"But that's forty miles of enemy country now," some
304Behold the Darkness
one reminded the doubter. "Has General Scott
established contact with Butler?"
"I don't think so," the man from War answered.
"He can't spare even one company of cavalry from the
city."
"It's all bullshitl We're done forl No
one's coming. No one except the secesh army!"
Back at the Star about four in the afternoon, Jephtha
tried to compress what he'd heard into a few brief
paragraphs. He rushed the copy to the
telegraph office, only to find the clerks
extinguishing the gas and tacking up a sign that said
Closed.
Pale, one of the clerks told him, "We're
getting nothing in or out of Baltimore. The last
message we received said a mob was hammering on the
doors of the office. That was two hours ago. The
line's been dead ever since."
Jephtha went outside into the low-slanting
sunlight. He wadded his copy and flung it in the
gutter. He had no further responsibilities
until communication with the North was restored.
If it ever was.
He returned to Willard's for three more double
whiskeys. When he weaved back to the Avenue,
twilight had settled. He gaped at a
family-father, mother and two small children-slopping through the
mud behind a large wheelbarrow piled with clothing.
The whiskey lent him false courage. He started
walking toward the National.
At the hotel he laid sweating hands on the marble
counter. "Lloyd?"
The clerk looked up from a ledger. "Yes, Mr.
Kent?"
"Is the Lamont family still here?"
"They checked out this morning."
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"All four of them?"
"Yes. They took a hack. I spent an hour
locating one for them. Mr. Lamont paid me twenty
dollars just to make the arrangements. They seemed very
anxious to leave."
"For Richmond?"
"They didn't say."
Feeling curiously sober, Jephtha started away.
"Thank you, Lloyd."
"Mr. Kent?"
He turned back. In the young clerk's eyes, he
saw the fear that had become epidemic.
"Have you picked up any word about those relief
regiments?"
Jephtha shook his head. "The telegraph's
closed down in Baltimore. All the trains from
there are late. And empty."
Suddenly the clerk leaned forward:
"For God's sake, when are the troops coming on?"
"I don't know, Lloyd. I'm not sure there are
any troops.
That evening, in the kitchen of the boarding house, he
told Molly the Lamont entourage had
departed. She reached out to grip his hand:
"Oh, Jephtha-I'm sorry. She never sent her
note-was
"No."
He was seated at the plank table, his shoulders
slumped. He separated his fingers from hers and sipped
from a mug of whiskey-laced coffee. Molly
resumed wrapping short pieces of twine around a
larger ball. At the hearth, Bertha was stirring a
kettle of soup. She kept up a continuous
monologue of complaint:
"comthieves, that's what every blamed one of "em's
306Behold the Darkness
turned into! Who 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
mustache with neatly waxed tips. New, too, were his
thick Dundreary whiskers, reaching almost to the point
of his chin. The style had been popularized
by theater-goers. Similar whiskers bad been worn
by Lord Dundreary, one of the characters.in Tom
Taylor's Our American Cousin, a hit of the
'58 season.
324The Girl I Left Behind Me
Joshua Rothman and his plump, cheerful wife
Miriam were about the same age; in their late
thirties. When Julia made her grand
entrance-deliberately late, Michael
suspected-she went directly to the Boston
couple, greeting them warmly. She ignored the
Hopes, who were chatting with Michael and Louis.
Again, Michael believed the delay was intentional.
Julia wanted the Hopes to understand the relative
importance of those present
Finally, she glided over to speak with the California
visitors for about half a minute before Wicks
announced dinner.
To start the feast, half a dozen servants poured
wine and set a solid silver tureen containing
bisque of pheasant in front of each guest.
Michael was the odd man. Partnerless, he was
uncomfortable. And damnably aware of his hostess.
It was difficult not to admire Julia this evening.
From her place at the foot of the long table, she
dominated the gathering like a candle in a cave. Her
dark hair cascaded over her ears in loose,
glistening falls, and was drawn into a low chignon at
the nape of her neck. To adorn her hair, she'd
chosen an arrangement of white velvet flowers with
tiny orange centers and miniature green velvet
leaves, the whole draped artfully down the left
side of her head to her shoulder.
Her white satin gown had short puffed sleeves
and a boat-shaped decolletage, suitably modest
yet not so high as to prohibit a glimpse of her
cleavage when she leaned over to speak with Rothman,
seated on her right Silver cord fastened another
festoon of artificial flowers across her bodice.
Similar cording and flowers edged the hem of
her skirt. On each wrist she wore a little band of
green velvet decorated with one orange- centered
bloom.
The Rothmans sat opposite the Hopes, who had
Michael between them. He suspected the arrangement was
The Titans325
planned to show him his proper place. He spooned
up the bisque as Hope replied to a question from across the
table:
"You're right, Mrs. Rothman, the Russell,
Majors and Waddell service is a boon
to California. In view of what's been happening in
the East, people are anxious to get the news as soon as
possible."
"What's the record time for those pony riders?"
Joshua Rothman asked.
"Seven days and seventeen hours-carrying the
President's inaugural speech."
Fastidiously, Hope touched his lips with a napkin.
"Each man rides about seventy- five miles."
Miriam Rothman shook her head. "I had no
idea the Express was so fast."
"Normally, the run from Independence to San
Francisco takes eight days," Hope told
her. "That still beats Butterfield's
Overland Stage by eight days."
In her charmingly accented speech, Clotilde
Hope said, "We shall soon feel even closer to you
thanks to- how do you say it?-la tfUgraphie."
Michael said, "But I understand that may put the
Pony Express out of business by the end of the year."
Louis finished his soup and laid his spoon aside.
"You may find you don't want to hear the news from this
part of the country."
Clotilde's husband nodded in a rueful way.
"We even thought about canceling our trip. We had no
trouble, however."
"Of course not," Miriam said. "There's no such
thing as a Confederate navy."
"I'm sorry, my dear, but there is now," her
husband said. "That fool McCauley didn't do a
thorough job of scuttling the ships before the rebels
captured the Cos- port yard. My contacts in
Richmond say Merrimack, among others, will be
refloated as a Confederate raider."
326The Girl I Left Behind Me
"You mean to say you have dealings with your enemies?"
Clotilde exclaimed. Louis and Julia
exchanged amused looks. Israel noticed;
frowned. But Rothman answered
courteously:
"Yes, Mrs. Hope, we haven't closed off
all lines of communication just yet. There's an
excellent reason- especially among bankers. The
South owes us a substantial amount in loans.
We're trying to collect before it becomes totally
impossible. Besides-was
Rothman gestured. Reflections of the table candles
multiplied in the leaded panes of the windows. The
glass was still wet with raindrops. But the storm had
passed.
"commuch as I detest the philosophies of some of our
Southern brethren-and much as I believe we must
meet their military challenge-I can't bring myself
to dislike Southerners as individuals. They're
Americans, after all. Their region has made
invaluable contributions to this country."
Israel said quietly, "It also gave me the
scars on my back."
"Amen to that," Mrs. Rothman nodded. She was
active among the Boston abolitionists, Michael
knew. "Lincoln's proved a distinct
disappointment."
"You mean regarding slavery?" Michael asked.
She nodded again. "He said he wouldn't
interfere with it where it was already established. That's
cowardly and immoral! He should issue a
proclamation freeing every black man, woman and child in
the South. Then those rebels would be so busy
protecting themselves against the people they've exploited and
abused for two hundred years, they wouldn't have time
to go playing at war!"
Joshua Rothman looked dubious. "You continue
to misjudge the South, Miriam. Slaveholders
are in the minority. We're at war because the South
feels the North's infringing on the rights of
sovereign states."
The Titans327
"Nonsense, Joshua! We're at war because they
feel superior to black people, want to keep them in
bondage comand are terrified at the thought of Negro
equality!"
Louis began to look displeased with the trend of the
conversation. Israel said:
"I happen to believe you're correct, Mrs.
Rothman. But even if the South could be coerced
into abiding by it, I doubt a proclamation of
freedom would produce any basic change."
Snappishly, the banker's wife said, "You don't
want to see your own people liberated, Mr.
Hope? I find that hard to believe after reading your
book!"
"Of course I want to see the Negro free.
I'm only saying a piece of paper won't work a
miracle. I know how whites feel about people of my
race. A proclamation wouldn't necessarily make
the black man's lot any easier. Might make
it harder, in fact. Enemies who pretend friendship
are a hell of-excuse me-a devil of a lot
harder to fight than enemies who don't. How would the
country-the North-treat hundreds of thousands of
newly liberated blacks? Welcome them as
equals? I sincerely doubt it. I'm in favor
of emancipation. But I'm convinced it would only end
one struggle and begin another."
"You're right," Michael said, taking a sip of the
white wine that had been served with the bisque. "Where
I was born in the city, every nigra is a threat to an
Irishman's job."
Israel sighed. "Exactly. We'll be a long,
long time solving that problem."
Julia pouted. "Then why must we discuss it?
Let's stop all this depressing talk of slavery
and war and just enjoy ourselves!"
"Hear, hear!" Louis said. "There may be
a war, but we're under no obligation to wear hair
shuts because of it. In fact, we have good reason to be
happy. As an
328The Girl I Left Behind Me
entity, the Kent family's doing well. The war will
help us do even better."
Joshua Rothman looked startled; his wife,
upset. Apprehensive, Clotilde watched her
husband. Louis prodded the suddenly expressionless
mulatto:
"Don't you agree, Israel?"
"I suppose so. I don't see how the war win
affect the Ophir Company, though. Are you speaking
of some new venture?"
Louis smiled. "Of course."
"What is it, Louis?" Rothman asked, rather
sharply. "Some scheme to get more business from the
government?" As the family banker, he didn't like
surprises.
Louis tapped his spoon against the tureen-tick,
tick-as if to throw Rothman off balance.
Affably, he replied:
"Which government do you mean? The one in Washington?
Or the one that may move from Montgomery
to Richmond in the next few weeks?"
Israel's head snapped around. Miriam
Rothman looked equally astonished. Michael
detected a sudden change in the atmosphere of the
overheated dining room. Something rank had crept in
to mingle with the aromas of candle wax and perfume.
Tick, tick-Louis' spoon kept moving. His
glance swept the table, ignoring the women but lingering a
moment on each of the men. His flame-lit eyes
left no doubt about who was in charge. He addressed
the continuation of his thought to the banker:
"Don't forget, Joshua-each government has
money to spend."
Israel's yellow fingers drummed on the table.
Rothman was aghast:
"Good God, you're not suggesting we deal with bothThat
Louis waved the spoon; a dismissal. "I'm
suggesting we honor Julia's request and enjoy
our meal." An al
The Titans$29
most imperceptible nod. The servants appeared,
preparing the table for the next course. Louis continued
smoothly, "We can discuss particulars later-after the
ladies gather in the drawing room." He tried
to joke: "Women gossip too much, eh, my
dear?"
"About everything except their lovers," she smiled.
His complexion darkened noticeably. Julia's
laugh was bright and faintly mocking:
"Come, don't look so thunderous! I'm only
teasing."
Michael wasn't so sure. He found himself studying
the tableware, the candles-anything but the faces of the
guests. The tension he'd sensed was increasing moment
by moment.
As he'd feared, business was the reason for the party.
Hope and his wife were present only for
camouflage. The mulatto and the banker both
realized that now. Both were visibly unhappy.
Louis, however, seemed relaxed and expansive
all at once, lolling in his heavily ornamented
chair. He acted pleased with himself. He'd prepared
the men for a pronouncement comthen left them dangling
until he was ready to deliver it. Another little
assertion of his authority. Michael had a hard' time
remembering Amanda's son was only in his
mid-twenties. He possessed the labyrinthine
mind of a man many years older.
Michael sensed Julia watching him. Glanced up-
Her blue eyes locked with his for an instant. The
bodice of her satin gown showed her rapid
breathing. Spots of color dotted her cheeks.
He wanted to look away; wanted to and couldn't.
She was more beautiful than ever, those velvet flowers
a colorful splash against the darkness of her hair.
Once she'd caught his attention-to remind him of
her remark about women and their lovers?-she turned
to whisper to Rothman. He couldn't hear the words. But
he was certain she was leaning forward for his benefit.
330The Girl I Left Behind Me
He caught a tantalizing glimpse of corseted
breasts. Beneath the table, his body reacted in a way
that startled and appalled him.
His right hand clenched on the table. Julia noticed
Cast one swift, triumphant glance in his
direction, then leaned over even further to hear
Rothman's whispered reply. She burst out
laughing:
"Oh, Joshua!-that's perfectly delightful!"
Again that uncomfortable feeling of being scrutinized comth
time by Louis, who hadn't missed the exchange of
glances. Michael felt increasingly fearful about the
rest of the evening. Too eagerly, he reached for his
wine goblet, drank, then signaled a servant for
more.
IV
Despite the disturbing undercurrents Louis had set
in motion at the table, Michael indulged his
slum-born appetite and ate voraciously. He
did it not only to fill his belly but to occupy his
hands and mind. To the superb Dover sole, the
sauces, side dishes and sweet pastries, he
added an uncommonly large amount of the various
wines served with each course.
Curiously, the alcohol did little to relax him.
He still felt tense when the meal ended and the gentlemen
separated from the ladies. The former retired to the
library, the latter to the drawing room- As the
ladies left, he experienced a touch of
malicious pleasure at the sight of Julia
flanked by an octoroon and a Jewess. No doubt
she found it galling to be gracious to women she'd
consider her inferiors. Her laughter sounded shrill
as Louis closed the library doors.
Michael walked to the marble fireplace and extended
his palms toward the flames. Amanda had often teased
The Titans331
him about his tolerance for temperatures others found
unbearable. But until she hired him as a
confidential clerk, he'd lived most of his life in
unheated slum rooms. He wished she were
present this evening instead of her son, who was pouring
cognac and offering cigars from a rosewood box.
Kentland's library was an enormous rectangular
room with another of those gaudy stained glass windows
at the far end. At the highest point of the ceiling-
twenty feet above the floor-arches of dark wood
met. Each arch was cusped, and the tips of the cusps
tre- foiled. Some called the carvings beautiful.
Michael found them fussy, ostentatious and
unconscionably expensive.
Louis tapped his shoulder. "Care for a brandy before we
talk?"
Michael turned. He detected no anger or
jealousy in the younger man's dark eyes.
"Thanks, I would."
He followed a trail of smoke to the liquor
cabinet Louis clenched the fragrant Havana in
his teeth as he poured. "Joshua-was
The banker broke off a low-voiced conversation with the
mulatto. "Yes?"
"You and Israel might glance through that stack of
newspapers on the table."
Though clearly puzzled by the request, the two men
did as bidden. Michael took a long swallow from
the snifter. The brandy burned his throat
Just as he sat down in a large chair, Joshua
Rothman exclaimed, "These are Richmond
papers!"
"From the weeks prior to Sumter," Louis nodded.
"Ignore the news columns. Nothing but a lot of
gas. It's the advertisements that are
provocative."
Sipping cognac, he strolled to the window. The sky
had cleared. The clouds were gone. Some of the re
332The Girl I Left Behind Me
maining raindrops caught the moonlight and shone through
the colored panes like bright gems.
Michael heard pages rustling as he returned to the
fireplace. At least Louis hadn't discarded the
artifacts the family had collected over the
years. Looking at the objects was never a painless
experience. Amanda had gotten a mortal wound
defending them with an old Colt revolver the night
the house in Madison Square had been invaded
by Irish thugs.
Above the mantel hung the scabbarded French sword
which the founder of the family, Philip Kent, had
received from a wealthy young nobleman he'd known in his
native province of Auvergne. Later, in
America, Philip had been reunited
with the Marquis de Lafayette, who was serving as a
major-general in the Continental army. They'd
remained lifelong friends.
Below the sword was a Kentucky rifle Philip
had acquired during his army service. The stock
gleamed with oil. The metalwork was bright and free of
rust. A painting of Philip himself, dark-haired and
faintly truculent, hung in the drawing room.
On the shelves flanking the mantel, two spaces
had been left among the books of Kent and Son.
In the space to Michael's left stood a stoppered
green bottle. The bottle contained a small
quantity of tea; the same tea Philip had found
in his shoes after he and a band of patriots boarded the
king's ships in Boston harbor to conduct what was still
referred to as Mr. Adams' tea party. A rendering
of the tea bottle was used as the colophon of the
printing house, and appeared on the masthead of every
issue of the Union.
The right-hand space was occupied by a glass display
case with wooden ends. Inside the case, a
slotted velvet pedestal held a round, tarnished
fob medallion. The medallion had been presented
to Amanda's cousin, Jared Kent, by her father,
Gilbert. A worn circlet of tarred
rope leaned against the front of the pedestal: a
The Titans333
bracelet Jared had woven for Amanda from cordage
of the frigate Constitution, on which he'd sailed in the
War of 1812.
Michael gazed at the obverse of the medallion. The
partially filled tea bottle had been used as a
central decoration, and was surrounded by a Latin
motto he knew by heart.
Cape locum et fac vestigium.
Take a stand and make a mark.
The words were an affirmation of the family's personal
code-and a promise to the country in which the Kents had
prospered. Michael doubted Louis was much
influenced by the first half of the motto, though he
certainly seemed intent on living up to the second.
Depressing-
He helped himself to more brandy. Ribbons of smoke
drifted over Louis' shoulder as he stood gazing
at the moonlit lawn leading down to the bluffs.
Israel tossed two papers back on the table:
"Louis, this is all a damned mystery to me.
What's so interesting about patent medicine claims,
information on militia units, or the announcement that
someone named Dr. Schlosser is stopping
at the Spotswood Hotel, where hell be happy
to treat corns and bunions just as he did for the King
of Bavaria?"
Louis chuckled as he turned. "You read only the
trivial advertisements. You missed the
significant ones. I thought you were a better
businessman."
The mildly sarcastic rebuke made Israel
stiffen. Roth- man, too, was unamused-but for a
different reason:
"I know what he's driving at, Israel. The
notices placed by industrial firms." He opened
a paper and pointed. "Powder for sale by the Du
Fonts of Wilmington." His finger kept moving.
"Goodyear extolling its India rubber tents.
Whitney's of New Haven-was He flung the
paper on the pile. "One company's even of
334The Girl I Left Behind Me
feting to alter muskets for percussion fire at two
dollars apiece."
Louis beamed. "Exactly."
"What do you mean, exactlyl Those notices
appeared before Sumter surrendered."
"Joshua, don't be naive. Naturally there
won't be similar advertisements in the
future. Not in the public press. But do you
honestly think every Northern firm is going to stop
doing business with the South?" He clamped the cigar in
his teeth again, squinting through the smoke. "Consider a
few simple facts. For instance comhow many
first-class iron manuf acturies are located in
the South? One!"
"The Tredegar in Richmond," Rothman
murmured. Israel stared at the floor.
"Correct The Tredegar-purveyors of heavy
guns and boilers for the U.s. Navy's steam
frigates- locomotive bodies and
boilers-piping for municipal water systems. Not
another factory in Dixie can match it The
Tredegar will convert to making military equipment if
the war lasts any length of time. For our sake, I
sincerely hope it will."
An unnatural silence descended on the library.
Rothman looked as if he'd been bludgeoned.
Israel stalked to the mantel and leaned there, staring
at the Kentucky rifle, rigid with fury.
"The truth is, gentlemen, the South has some
industrial faculties, but not nearly enough. I've
studied the subject. I can give you specifics-was
Rothman scowled. "Why bother?" "Because
I want to, my friend! To make my case! In the
South, about a hundred and ten thousand people are engaged in
factory trades. Compare that with a million three
hundred thousand in the North. In the South there are
approximately eighteen thousand factories-a
hundred and ten thousand up here. We have as many
plants as the South has workers!"
The Titans335
He spoke directly to the banker: "Don't you
see what that means in the event of a lengthy war? Where
is the South going to get shoes? Medicines? Those
new vulcanized rubber springs for rail cars? And a
hundred other items I could name?"
"You've made your point," Rothman snapped.
"Not quite. Southern cotton is vitally important
to one of our enterprises. The Blackstone mills in
Paw- tucket. But the cotton we need is going
to be rotting in the fields or moldering on the
wharves. It won't be shipped to Europe-Jeff
Davis is going to hold it back to force England and
France to recognize the Confederacy his
Michael leaped up, slamming his snifter on a
table, as he blurted:
"What the hell are you proposing, Louis? That we
join hands with that damn Fernando Wood and
support his scheme for Manhattan to secede, set
itself up as a separate political entity and trade
with both sides?"
Louis waved. "Mayor Wood's an idiot.
Certainly I'm not proposing we involve ourselves in
any plan as stupid as that. In fact, I'm not
proposing anything." A pause. "I'm telling you
what we're going to do."
Israel erupted: "Trade with the slave states?"
"Yes."
"I'll have no part of it!"
"Calm yourself!" Louis said, walking to the mulatto
and reaching for his arm. Israel jerked away. Louis
kept his temper:
"You're entirely correct-you'll have nothing to do with
it. Personally. But we're going to finance our
venture with the Ophir profits."
Pandemonium. Rothman shouted the loudest:
"Louis, that's absolutely unthinkable! Every penny
of that money goes into the separate account for Jephtha
and his sons-along with the earnings from its
336The Girl I Left Behind Me
reinvestment. The California funds are never mixed
with the rest of the Kent income. Never!"
"I appreciate that, Joshua. However,
you forget one compelling truth. Take any one of our
enterprises. The newspaper-the publishing house-or
the Stovall Works and the Blackstone Company, in which
we hold substantial interests. Our income from
each of those sources has demands on it. Operating
expenses. Plowback for improvements to plant and
equipment. Your bank collects a sizable
managerial fee. So do the attorneys at Benbow
and Benbow. Add in my salary, and Michael's-was
"Good-sized sums! Hardly to be minimized with the
picayune term salary!"
"Well, Michael and I-you, too, I expect-have
become accustomed to a certain style of living."
No one smiled. Abruptly, Louis continued:
"I won't put a penny from any of the businesses
into a high-risk venture. With one exception. Even
after deduction of Israel's share of the earnings, and the
shares of those partners, Pelham and Nichols, there's
a formidable sum left over. I've thought about it a
long time. Our sole source of risk capital is
the Ophir."
"Well!" Rothman thundered. "Your mother left
explicit instructions! We can only invest the
Ophir money in sound, profitable stocks!"
"What I'm talking about can be
fantastically profitable."
"And dangerous," Michael said. "Probably
illegal."
"Michael's right," Rothman agreed. "I can't go
along with it. Your mother insisted-was
"My mother, Joshua, is no longer with us."
Rothman's face turned red. Louis hurled his
cigar into the fire:
"Jesus God Almighty, what is this, a
conclave of saints? Do you think I'm talking about
anything hundreds of other Northern businessmen
won't be
The Titans337
doing? If things work out, we'll make Jephtha and
those pups of his fifty times richer than they are
already! Every cent of the principal will be returned to them!
Hell, I'll even concede some of the profits."
Coldly, Rothman said, "Keeping a certain
percentage as compensation for your efforts, of course."
Louis smiled a bland smile. "I'd be entitled
to it. But let's get down to the particulars-starting with
cotton. I've been in contact with the Lacroix
brothers in New Orleans. They agree with me.
Opportunities are bound to exist for commerce between the
opposing governments-was
"The Confederacy is no damned government!"
Israel cried. "It's a region in
rebellion! Trying to preserve a system that should have
been buried two hundred years ago!"
"Israel, your feelings are understandable. But they
don't square with the realities of the situation."
"What realities?"
"The Confederacy is already a second, sovereign
power on this continent. It will be until it's defeated-
which is inevitable. I cited one reason a few
minutes ago. Industrial resources.
Population's another." "But-was
"I insist you let me finish. If you want to get
technical, Lincoln's already acknowledged the
Confederacy's a government, not a section engaged in
insurrection." "That's not true!"
"It is! Lincoln did it with his blundering
announcement of a blockade. Naval blockades
are instruments one government uses against another.
Read your maritime law. Apparently neither the
President nor Secretary Welles took the
trouble."
Israel looked stunned. Louis lit another
cigar. "We've gotten too far from the subject-was
Thick-tongued, Michael said, "No,
too close." Louis ignored him. "We've
taken the first steps with the
338The Girl I Left Behind Me
Lacroixs. They're going to establish a dummy
finn in a city convenient for-ah-confidential trading.
A city far from Washington. Vicksburg, perhaps.
Or Natchez. Our base of operations will be
Chicago. The name of our firm will be Federal
Suppliers. Benbow and Ben- bow is already doing the
preliminary paperwork to set it up."
"I can't believe it," Rothman breathed.
Michael felt sick; sick and betrayed.
Israel was eyeing the French sword as if he
wanted to haul it down and use it on Amanda's
son.
Rothman collapsed in a chair. "I can't
believe the Benbows would be a party to-was
"Oh, they don't like it much," Louis interrupted as
he helped himself to more brandy. His back was turned.
He spoke loudly, to be certain they heard him:
"However, the Benbows realize one fact-was
He faced them, massaging the snifter between his
palms.
"They work for me. If they don't like the arrangement,
they're free to withdraw at any time."
He smiled and drank. The smile of an adder,
Michael thought, his stomach hurting.
"That applies to you gentlemen, too," Louis added.
"Of course, if you break off our association, your
financial position will suffer. Substantially. Still,
the choice is yours. If you haven't the guts to do
what dozens of other businessmen-was
"We are not other businessmen, goddamn it!"
Rothman roared. "We're the representatives
of the Kent family!"
"A family I intend to see prosper even more than
it's prospered up till now." Louis said it
quietly, unwilling to be baited into a shouting
match.
"The principles behind this war mean absolutely
nothing to you?"
Louis shrugged. "Our public posture should be
full
The Titans339
support of the administration. But as you yourself remarked
at dinner, Joshua, we will be dealing with
Americans. Why the devil are you acting so
sanctimonious? You've admitted Wall Street
hasn't broken its ties with the South-was
"I explained the reason for that! And its no
secret from the Federal government!"
"While your arrangement," Michael put in,
"can't be anything but secret."
Louis remained calm. "True. All goods wfll
be bought for gold or silver. No paper money
accepted by either side. Who knows what paper will be
worth before the war's over? A couple of men who will
eventually manage Federal Suppliers have started
using gold-was
"You've hired people?" Michael asked.
Louis nodded.
"Who are they?"
"It's not important."
"I think it is."
"Well, you're overruled. As I was saying-the men
have started using gold to buy one of the basic
commodities in which we'll be dealing."
Rothman leaped to his feet. "What gold?
Nothing's been withdrawn from Jephtha's accounts-was
"Not as yet. I've kept a strict accounting,
though. I'll ask for a transfer of funds very
soon."
"What's this commodity you're stockpiling?" Michael
wanted to know.
"One which the Lacroixs suggested. Something
very commonplace. But important."
He smiled the adder's smile again, forcing them
to wait. Michael felt beaten. Louis was like a
brakeless railroad engine running downhill.
Unstoppable.
After he'd teased them a few more seconds, Louis
uttered one word:
"Salt."
340The Girl I Left Behind Me
"God help us," Rothman groaned. "You have lost
your mind."
"Allow me to disagree. I made the decision after
careful research. Just like everything else in Mr.
Davis' splendid new domain, salt is
critically scarce. The only wells of any
significance are located in southwestern
Virginia. They'll be taxed to capacity if the war
continues beyond three or four months. Without salt,
meat can't be cured. Without meat, men can't be fed.
Without decent food, no army fights
effectively. Salt's important to the
civilian population, too. Think of the field
niggers working the cotton. Their productivity
depends on their strength, and their strength depends on
an adequate diet. Which includes meat.
Federal Suppliers is going into the salt
business."
"Jesus." Michael was trembling. "Jesus"
Louis grew unfriendly. "I anticipated that land of
reaction from you, frankly. I've tried to be
reasonable. And I'll say it one more time-I'm doing
nothing others won't be doing. On both sides of the
quarrel."
White-lipped, Michael told him, "I don't
believe you."
"That's your error, then. I'll give you an
example to prove it. There's already been private
communication between Memminger, that Dutchman who runs
the Confederate treasury, and two bank note
companies, the American and the National, in New
York." White the others stared, Louis
exclaimed: "What's so astonishing? Where's the
Confederacy going to get its first paper money? From
companies that specialize in engraving and printing
bills! Northern companies! The vice president
of National told me he'd have to label the bills
products of the Southern Bank Note Company-which
I doubt exists. National has no qualms, I
assure you. And profiteering isn't confined
to illegal trade-I personally know a
Brooklyn clothier who's working on a contract
to supply Federal uni-
The Titans341
forms. He- intends to manufacture them of shoddy.
Reprocessed rags! He's going to charge the same
as he would for uniforms of first-quality wool. No
qualms there either. Why should we be exceptions?"
"Jesus," Michael said again, "If Mrs. A
ever heard such talk-was
"Michael, I am growing goddamned sick and
tired of continual references to my mother!"
"Well, you may not like it, but-
"comwho was, I remind you, my mother and not yours"
Michael went white. Before he could retort,
Rothman stormed toward Louis, shouting again:
"That's the filthiest, most derogatory thing you've
ever said!"
"Joshua-was
"Who the hell took care of you when Amanda died?
Who sat with you, hour by hour, after you came out of that
concussive sleep Stovall caused when he hit
you? Who consoled you when you learned your mother was dead and
wept like an infant?"
"Yes, yes, I realize-was Momentarily taken
aback, Louis softened a little.
"I've never heard such shameful ingratitude!"
"Well, I'm sorry!" Louis retorted-more
angry than apologetic;
Bitterly, Michael said, "Let's not debate
my humanitarianism. I accepted the
responsibility Mrs. A gave me. I did it
without hesitation-was He faced Louis, his look
murderous. "Because she was kind to me. Because I loved
her. The subject's dosed."
Louis tried to smile. "I'm glad. My mother
has nothing to do with the present discuss-was
"She has everything to do with it!" Rothman insisted.
"She believed the Kents stood for something. Honor!
Principle! Your sole concern seems to be
financial gain."
342The Girl I Left Behind Me
"Oh?" Louis was contemptuous. "That's different from
yours? You don't approve of the Stovall Works
supplying steel for Northern armament factories?"
Rothman stammered, "Naturally I believe in
supporting-was
"I see. It's making money from your belief that you
object to."
"You're twisting my words-was
"Bullshit"
"You-was The banker mopped his forehead. "You just
don't understand. The profit's incidental. I'd
give Stovall steel away if it would bring the war
to a speedy end-was
"I wouldn't."
"That's because the costs you care about show up in a
ledger, not a burial ground. You'll never face a
Confederate musket! You'll stay safe and
secluded in this baronial palace-was
"Joshua, you're getting pretty fucking
personal!"
"I have a right to get personal! My family and
yours have been close for almost eighty-five years!
I'm not averse to making money-not even by supplying
materiel to the Union. I am averse
to unprincipled speculation that could prolong the war
instead of comshorten it I don't want profits at
the price of dead bodies!"
Louis didn't answer immediately. He was breathing
hard. Michael glanced at Israel, who was still
leaning on the mantel, a queer expression on his
face. His eyes rested on Amanda's son. He
might have been gazing at excrement.
At last Louis collected his thoughts:
"Again, Joshua-your argument's emotional.
Based on faulty assumptions. Any student of the
Southern temperament knows those people will fight as long and
as harcf as they can. They're tough. They believe in
their cause. Why shouldn't we take advantage of
that situation?"
The Titans343
"Because we're supposed to believe in something, fool
We-was
Rothman swayed; gasped for air. Michael rushed
to catch him. A feeble motion of the banker's hand
rebuffed the help. His voice faint, he said:
"I believe I should retire. The discussion has
gotten somewhat out of hand."
Louis gripped Rothman's arm. "My fault."
The apology sickened Michael because he knew it was
false. He turned away.
I failed you, Mrs. A. But you had doubts about
him, too. While you were trying to take Kent and
Son away from Stovall, you said you'd done some things
that set Louis a bad example.
He leaned on the mantel beside the immobile, somehow
frightening Israel Hope.
Forgive me if I put part of the blame on you.
Taking it all on myself hurts too much.
"Please do retire if you feel like it,"
Louis went on.
Unsteadily, Rothman started for the door. "comtaxing
trip. A lot to drink. Trust you gentlemen will
forgive
me-was
Naturally Louis answered for all of them:
"Of course."
"I-I'll want to think this over-was Rothmanfs
voice kept growing weaker. "I don't know
whether-whether I can go along with-was
"Do think it over," Louis interrupted. "The
decision's yours." Cordially, he delivered the
killing stroke: "I'm sure many other banks would
be happy to handle the Kent business."
"I don't have any thinking to do."
The harsh sound of Israel's voice made
Rothman stop and peer with watering eyes. What
he'd been through-what they'd all realized about Louis
in the past few minutes-seemed to add ten years
to his age.
344The Girl I Left Behind Me
"You want a new manager for the Ophir Company,"
Israel said. "You want him at once. I
resign."
Louis shot out his hand. "Oh, Israel,
for God's sake-was
The mulatto stepped back. Michael honestly
thought he might attack the younger man. But, very
formally, and with immense control, he bowed:
"I thank you for the excellent dinner and the
hospitality at your table. My wife and I will go
back to the city now. If you'll be so kind as to call
the carriage-was
Louis looked thunderstruck. Israel's decision
actually broke through his hard veneer. He attempted
to save the situation:
"I'll feel very badly if you and Clotilde
leave. I'll feel ten times worse if you go
ahead with this idiotic resignation-was
Punctilious in spite of his rage, Israel
said, "There's no going ahead. I have resigned. I
don't want any more to do with this family-what's
left of it, that is. I expect to receive my wages
and my share of the mine profits to date. You know the
correct address in California."
Louis" face darkened again. His mouth twisted:
"What do you plan to do? Become a carpenter again?
Grub with your hands?"
"Yes, sir," Israel whispered. "The way I
did when I helped your mother put up the
tavern in Yerba Buena. The way your great-grandfather
did when he dirtied his fingers with ink at his print
shop. Dirt on the hands is better than dirt on
the soul."
Another polite bow. "Mr. Boyle-Mr.
Rothman- it's been a pleasure to meet you." He
paused at the door, addressing Louis. "Don't
trouble yourself to say goodbye. Just have the carriage
ready."
"Of all the stubborn, unrealistic-was
Slam.
The door vibrated Louis' mouth hung open. He
The Titans345
poured more brandy, then whirled suddenly and hurled the
snifter at the hearthstone.
Michael and Rothman dodged the flying splinters.
Louis ran a hand over his hair. Tried
to relieve the tension with a weak smile:
"Well, that was certainly a mistake. I mean
inviting him to be present during our talk. I
really did it as a matter of courtesy, since he
manages the source of the income we'll be using for the
Chicago operation-was
"He comwas the manager," Michael corrected.
Louis waved. "He'll change his mind
when he's calmed down."
"No, Louis. Not every man in the world is for sale.
You'd better call the carriage."
Rothman wiped his forehead. "I'm going to bed." The
words were barely audible.
"And I'm going to have a drink," Michael said.
"In my room."
"I'll send Wicks up with bourbon-was Louis
began.
The Irishman stared at him. Such a handsome,
splendid figure in his evening attire. Composed
again, he strolled to the hearth. He kicked at a
shard of glass. The way he kicks aside every bit
of opposition, Michael thought I've got to get out
of here before I kill him.
"Please do," he said. "I want to toast the
success of Federal Suppliers."
"Oh, Christ! Don't be snide. You two have
blown the whole issue out of proportion!" He hit
the mantel with his fist. "Why can't you get it through your
heads? Hundreds of firms will be trading with the
South!"
"That may be so," Michael whispered. "But I stand
with Joshua. I'll have no part in profiteering at the
expense of human lives."
Louis Kent's black eyes pierced him:
"Then you're not for sale either?"
"Not to you. Good night, Louis.
w
346The Girl I Left Behind Me
He followed Rothman out, his step almost as erratic
as the banker's.
The mellow Tennessee bourbon Louis sent to his
room didn't help.
Nothing helped.
He drank; paced; drank, swore and kept
drinking- an hour and more.
What could he do to stop Louis?
Nothing.
What could Joshua Rothman do except refuse
to act as the Kents' banker? For each of them, only
an ineffectual, essentially negative response
was possible.
For a long time Michael stared out the window at the
silver and shadow of the lawn and the moon-tipped trees
beyond the Hudson. He heard the carriage depart with
Israel and his wife. Finally, sick of the house and
aware that he was not only drunk but also miserably
wide awake, he left his room, prowled down through
the darkened entrance hall and went outside.
With the passing of the storm, the air had cooled. He'd
discarded his coat and cravat, though he still wore his
vest and starched evening shirt. He wandered toward the end
of the gigantic house whose spires and turrets
glowed under the high moon.
God, what a relief to escape the poisoned air
inside. He savored the wholesome smell of wet
earth and grass. He stumbled through a flower bed and
made his way around to the back of the mansion to the
two-story stable where he caught the scent of straw and
manure and the horses.
He walked on, passing a pergola. On the far
side, he started down the lawn to the dark trees
edging the bluff at one side of the cleared area.
The Titans347
He'd gone only a few steps when he thought he
heard a sound.
He looked back. The pergola's diamond-shaped
lattices spread their shadows across the silvery
grass at the top of the slope. The shadows faded as
a cloud crossed the moon. He blinked, fancying
he'd seen a different kind of shadow moving behind the
pergola just before it darkened.
Only imagination, he decided.
He wandered on to the comforting gloom of the
trees. The branches rattled in the light wind.
He sank down and rested his back against rough bark.
The breeze dried the sweat on his face. The
liquor kept him warm-though it did nothing
to relieve his feelings of rage and impotence.
Soon the damp ground began to soak the seat of his
trousers. He rose, lurched forward, tripped over
a root and blundered into a fern that spattered him with
water. At the edge of the bluff, he gazed down at
the tranquil, faintly iridescent river-
And heard another sound.
He spun to peer through the trees. He wasn't
imagining this time. Someone was moving on the lawn-
He sucked in a swift breath. The moving shadow was
that of a woman.
Her gown belled around her feet as she ran toward
him. Her hair streamed behind her, suddenly moonlit
as the cloud passed. Surprised and uneasy, he
felt obliged to hail her:
"Julia?"
"Yes. I can't see you, Michael-was
"I'm down by the bluff. Be careful, the grass is
slippery."
She made it without a fall, vanishing for a moment
among the trees. When she emerged and
hurried to his side, she was breathing rapidly.
She'd put on a heavy night robe. Dark fur
trimmed
348The Girl I Left Behind Me
the collar and cuffs. He experienced a sharp sense
of danger as Julia's pale face turned up
toward his. She clutched his arm for support:
"You're right about the grass. I nearly fell
twice."
His mouth tasted stale. His head felt heavy. He
was a little dizzy. He'd consumed all the
bourbon-half a decanter. He should have been
relaxed. But he wasn't. The feeling of danger
persisted.
He tried to banter: "Bit damp for a stroll,
isn't it?"
"How could I possibly sleep? Louis stormed
into his bedroom swearing like old Vanderbilt. He
bolted himself in-he wouldn't answer my knocks.
Then I heard someone prowling-was
"Me, probably. I couldn't sleep either."
"I gathered as much when I looked into the hall. Your
door was open and the lamps were lit. Michael, you must
tell me what happened. Why is Louis so
upset?"
"(ft-was He was careful; he didn't trust her.
"We had a rather heated conversation about business, thaf
s all."
"I should say it must have been heated! When I came
downstairs, Wicks was just going back to bed. He
said Mr. Hope and his nigger wife had left in a
huff."
"No, in the carriage."
She stamped her foot. "Don't try to be clever!
I want to know why they left."
He sighed. "Ask Louis. Preferably in the
morning. Things always seem more out of joint when it's
dark and everyone's tired."
Julia folded her arms across her small breasts.
"That won't do. Louis tells me only what he
wishes to tell me. You know how stubborn he can
be."
"God, yes! Still-any explanations should come from him.
He is your husband-was
"You sound so bitter."
"Do I? Sincere apologies."
The Titans349
He moved-away from her, raking fingers through his
rust-colored hair. To be alone with her made him
uncomfortable.
All at once a tiny suspicion stole into his
thoughts. Leaving the house to follow him was a definite
indiscretion. Had she done it solely to find out
what had taken place in the library? He studied
her eyes. The moon lent them a gem-like luster that
stirred his loins.
"Julia, I believe you'd better go back. If
you stay here you'll catch grippe or worse."
"My bed clothes are thin, but my cloak's very
warm."
Leave, he said to himself. Leave now. There is more to it
than curiosity about me quarrel-
"Then I'll go." He started past her, fighting the
damnable physical reaction her presence caused.
She caught his hand, swept it around her waist,
pressed her back against his chest "Don't leave
until you tell me." She leaned back, her head
touching his shoulders. Her hair smelled sweeter
than the spring grass. Murmuring, she went on:
"Louis won't. You're my only hope. You can't
refuse me. You're kind-a quality we both know
Louis lacks. I-I've always admired that about you,
Michael-was
He wanted to laugh. Game-playing again. Damn
you, Michael Boyle-you know what she's
doing. Are you so weak that you'll stand and permit it?
He was.
Her head was motionless against his shoulder, her eyes
fixed on the western sky above the Hudson. "I
know you probably don't believe I admire you-was
"Truthfully, no." He still didn't move.
"But it's true!"
She whirled, standing quite close. He sensed the warmth
of her body.
"I wish you'd be my friend. I wish you'd do as I
ask and explain what-was
350The Girl I Left Behind Me
"Nol" Michael said, seizing her comarms. Too
late, he realized his mistake. The physical
contact only roused him all the more.
He hardened his voice:
"Ask Louis."
Her face was tflted up toward his. The moon
set her eyes afire, hiding whatever thoughts those
eyes might reveal. She seemed so small;
fragile; needing protection- Be careful!
"All right." She sounded sad. "But at least you
don't have to speak so roughly. I'm terribly
upset because I know there's been trouble and I can't
discover the reason. You are my only
hope. Michael, I-was
She seemed to rise on her toes. Her mouth-the
mouth that had pressed his with such surprising passion
earlier in the day-was very near. She whispered:
"I need you to be my friend. I have no one else. I
don't want anyone else-was
Gently, she kissed him. His self-control
shattered. He circled her waist with his arms,
pulled her against him and kissed her as she was begging
to be kissed
The damp spring air-the interplay of moon and
slow-moving tree branches-her seeming sadness all
conspired against him. Her lips were warm and wet
Unmistakably, she felt him through her robe.
Her hands stole up to his face. Her palms
caressed him. She opened her mouth. Their tongues
touched.
Shuddering, she thrust even closer, one of her hands
tangled in his hair-
Then, abruptly, she ended it. Her small,
surprisingly strong hands closed on his forearms and
pushed him back:
"Michael, we mustn't-was
The moonlight showed him her eyes. Not alarmed.
Amused-
The Titans351
Enraged, he wrenched free, grabbed her and pulled
her toward the trees.
She struggled: "No, darling. We've gone too
far already-was
"The hell we have."
"Michael-was She wrenched hard, escaping his hands.
"I'm a married woman!"
"I see," he said. "The hunt's over. The
trophy's claimed"
"What in heaven's name do you mean?"
"You know very well."
"I certainly do not, I-was
Drunk and angry, he lunged and caught her again.
"Let go of me!"
"No, by God. We're not finished just yet. You
shouldn't have started the game, Julia, because now we're
going to play it to the end."
"Michael, I beg you, let g-ahh backslash
was
She cried out as he jerked her up against his body.
He took satisfaction from the fright in her eyes; from
her wild pleading:
"Michael, I wasn't myself-I didn't intend
to lead you on-was
"Of course you did. You got exactly what you
wanted. And a bit more than you bargained for-was
"What-what are you going to do?" Her effort at
sarcasm was tinged with terror: "What slum boys do
when they want a woman? Commit rape-?"
"Call it anything you please." He swept one arm
beneath her legs; lifted her. She was no match for his
strength. He spun and climbed toward the trees with
long, savage strides.
"Oh, God," she whispered against his throat.
"You're cruel, you're an animal-was
"No more than you, my dear."
Among the trees where no light penetrated, he
352The Girl I Left Behind Me
dammed her on her feet Branches clacked in the
wind. A night creature scuttled away in the
underbrush.
"Michael, I'm warning you-was He couldn't see her
face. But her voice conveyed her desperation.
"I'll tell Louis."
He chuckled. "I don't think so. He'd give
you worse punishment than you're going to get from me."
Using both hands, he tore her robe outward and
down; tore the flimsy lace-edged fabric beneath at
the same time.
His eyes had accustomed themselves to the dark. Her face
was a dim white ovaLike Her bared breasts looked
black at the tips.
Breathing hard, he cupped his hands around those breasts.
Closed his fingers slowly. He didn't want
to hurt her-
Not too much.
vi
He took her on the damp ground, her robe thrown
open beneath her and her lace gown a tangle above her
At first she was rigid. She beat at him with
small, hard fists. He kept his mouth on hers so
she wouldn't cry out
Then, in the midst of his deliberately brutal
assault, something changed. He felt it first where their
bodies joined.
Her fists opened. One arm curved around his neck.
She tried to match his motion, not fight against it
He was surprised when he heard her groan. She
strained closer, uttering throaty, pleading cries-
It was too late.
He stood up, attending to his clothing. She
twisted from side to side, moaning still louder:
The Titans353
"Ohhh. Ohhh-was
He didn't know whether she was feeling pain or
desire. Nor did he care. "Good night,
Julia," he said, wheeling away and striding through the
grove toward the lawn.
He was vaguely ashamed of what he'd done. The
shame lingered and grew sharper when he was back in his
room, sobering fast.
But mingled with the shame, there was pleasure.
vii
An hour before dawn, still dressed in his formal suit
and lugging his hastily packed portmanteau,
Michael left the house a second time.
He encountered no one until he wakened the groom
in the stable. By lantern light, the two of them
proceeded to the second floor room where Joel was
spending the night.
Joel and the groom hitched up the horse. As gray
light began to whiten the eastern face of the house, the
carriage wheeled from the drive and was soon careening
through the muddy ruts in the We/chester forest.
Michael slumped on the seat, drained. His eyes
itched. He was unable to get the stale taste out of his
mouth-nor the feel of Julia's body out of his
thoughts.
Chilly air gusted through the open window.
He tried to analyze his confused state of mind.
He hadn't departed suddenly, and without announcement,
because he feared repercussions from Louis. He'd
meant what he'd told Julia. He doubted
she'd ever say anything about the-
What's fhe term for it? he asked himself sourly.
Semi- rape?
Even if they'd been detected-if Louis or a
servant had accidentally glimpsed one or both of
them on the
354The Girl I Left Behind Me
lawn-he wasn't concerned. Suppose Louis did
come after him with a cane, a horsewhip-even a
pistol. It might be a relief. At least he'd
have a chance of winning that kind of contest. Whereas in the
battle waged with words in Kentland's library,
he'd been defeated and left without further options.
The carriage bounced and jolted him. Completely
sober, he finally admitted he was running away from
something other "than the hopeless struggle with Amanda's
son. He was running from himself-and his feelings about
Julia.
He knew what kind of woman she was. She'd
made that clear again down by the river. He'd hoped
to teach her a lesson; show her she couldn't
sport with him; lead him just so far, then call a
halt
But she'd won after all. As the terrible light of day
revealed the woods, so his own mind revealed the long-
buried truth. Even though Julia Kent was
despicably flawed, during those moments when they'd
moved together in passion-and long before-he'd wanted her.
He squinted against the wind. Stared at the woods
slipping by. Self-deception wasn't possible
any longer. She was beautiful-and he'd envied
Louis for possessing her:
All this time you were so careful Ignoring her sly
invitations. Refusing to play her game. Not because you
despised her but because, secretly, you wanted
to succumb-
Added to the rupture that had taken place in the
library, it was an impossible situation. So he was
fleeing back to New York.
But what peace could he find there? He couldn't
persuade Louis to abandon that damned dummy company
in Chicago. He had no power to force him to do it.
And he couldn't see Julia again. For the sake of his
own sanity, he didn't dare.
Trapped.
The Titans. 355
Doubly trapped-
With no way out.
The carriage sloshed through standing water. Mud
splattered against the side, the sound rousing him a little.
The first brilliant orange sunlight speared between
the trees. He remembered what day it was-
Saturday.
There was something he could do to escape.
viii
Shortly after two o'clock that afternoon, Michael
approached the steps of the brownstone residence at
129 Fifth Avenue, between Nineteenth and
Twentieth. The April sun shone.
He had made two previous stops. One on
Beekman Street and, prior to that, at old Still
Patrick's, on Mulberry just north of Prince.
His progress along the row of handsome houses was
impeded by a crowd that had gathered for yet another
parade. He recognized the uniforms of the rough-
looking men marching by. They were Fire Zouaves,
recruited from the brawlers who manned the city's
volunteer pump companies. A crony of
Lincoln's, one Colonel Ellsworth, a
patent attorney from Chicago, had set out on a
personal campaign to whip up enthusiasm
for the type of military uniform the French had copied
from the Berbers during some forgotten war in Algeria.
Outside Number 129, Michael paused
to watch. The New York Fire Zouaves
swaggered along in ballooning red trousers, short,
tight-fitting blue jackets and scarlet sashes.
Their muskets were canted carelessly over their
shoulders. Most of the men carried Bowie knives.
Each wore a red fez.
He heard drums. Their band, a block away-
356The Girl I Left Behind Me
"They gonna ship you boys to Washington by rail?"
a spectator shouted.
One of the Fire Zouaves bawled back, "Sure
as hell hope so. We'll go through Baltimore like
a dose of salts!"
Cheers and applause. Each Zouave walked at his
own pace. No one acted concerned, least of all the
officers. Many of them were busy conversing with young
ladies along the parade route.
The thumping drums grew louder. The horns blared
suddenly, brassy and assertive. The melody
seemed a cruel comment on his own wretchedness-
The band was playing "The Girl I Left Behind
Me."
The crowd went wild as the band drew closer. The
music became a painful din. Against it, he heard
the words he'd spoken in the shadowy church he hadn't
visited in far too long-
Bless me, father, I have sinned.
A mortal sin.
Adultery.
Well, he would do his penance. But he would go beyond the
prescribed Hail Marys, the Our Fathers, the
Act of Contrition. He'd do a penance that would free
him of the futile fight with Louis Kent; a penance that
would help absolve him of the guilt springing from the
feelings about Julia which he'd finally acknowledged-
And would absolve another guilt as well.
He climbed the steps of Number 129.
Knocked. A rosy-faced Irish girl answered.
"Is the master at home?"
"Mr. Townsend?"
He'd forgotten the man he wanted to see lived with
his properous father-in-law. "I'm sorry-I mean
Mr. Meagher."
"In the parlor, sir. Who shall I say is-?"
Michael hurried by without answering.
Thirty-eight year old Thomas Meagher rose from

The Titans357
chair, looking annoyed Piles of documents
surrounded the chair. On the mantel rested a forage
cap with the 69th's distinctive metal insignia-a
small Irish harp. A stack of circulars lay
on a table. Michael had seen them before:
YOUNG IRISHMEN TO ARMS! TO ARMS YOUNG
IRISHMEN!
Iand1SH ZOUAVES
One hundred young Irishmen-healthy,
intelligent and active-wanted at once
to form a Company under the command of
THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER.
To be attached to the 69th Regiment,
N.y.S.m. No applicant under eighteen-was
"I don't believe we're acquainted," Meagher
barked.
"My name's Michael Boyle, sir. I'm a friend
of Colonel Corcoran's. We were introduced
once at Hibernian Hall."
Meagher's stern expression moderated. "Oh, yes.
I do recall the meeting. What can I do for you?"
"I wanted to ask whether your company roster's
filled. I went to the recruiting office on
Beekman-the one mentioned in mat
circular-but it was closed. I thought perhaps you'd
gotten your hundred men-was
"The recruiting hall is never open on Saturday
afternoons. I use that time for personal business."
Meagher nodded toward the piles of documents, growing
more cordial:
"Won't you be seated, Mr.-Boyle, is it?
To answer your question-no, the roster is not filled We
still need
seven men,"
The faint, taunting music of the Zouave band faded
down Fifth Avenue. "If you'll have me,"
Michael said, "now it's only six."
?"
I I'l
.!
Book Two Red My
CHAPTERI
City at the Edge of War
THREE O'CLOCK, the normal hour for closing, came
and went At four, the shop still had customers.
Margaret began to fret Would she be free soon enough
to meet Gideon?
He'd promised to be at their rendezvous by five-
thirty at the latest. If he were on time,
they'd have an hour together before he had to rush back to the
Fair Grounds. She kept thinking of it as the
Fair Grounds even though it had been renamed
Camp Lee in honor of the famous colonel who'd
come to Richmond as major- general in charge of the
state military forces.
Four fifteen. La Mode Shoppe remained
busy.
The shop occupied a narrow frontage on Main
Street near Tenth, a block and a half from the
teeming Spots- wood Hotel, the unofficial
center of the town's political activity. Though
La Monde had always enjoyed the patronage of a
few of the capital's well-to-do ladies, the
owner-Margaret's aunt-had never been able to match the
scope of the stock at establishments such as Miss
Semon's. Miss Semon was prosperous enough
to travel to Europe and bring back the latest
continental fashions-this season Arabian mantles
for women, and suits in the Spanish mode for young
gentlemen. At four- fifteen, Eliza Marble was
measuring Mrs. Honeyman's surly little boy for just
such a suit
What La Mode lacked in resources, it made
up by hard work. Aunt Eliza regularly
observed Miss Semon's

362Cy at the Edge of War
windows, sketched her latest arrivals from memory,
and then showed the four girls who worked evenings in the
back how to run up cheaper copies. Customers who
couldn't afford originals found Aunt Eliza's
imitations satisfactory both in design and
price.
Normally, this procedure helped insure a tiny
profit at the end of every month. But conditions in
Richmond were no longer normal. The city was now
part of the Confederacy-a situation Margaret loathed because
it meant war. Arkansas had left the Union,
followed by Tennessee. Mrs. Honeyman, overseeing
Aunt Eliza's measuring of the disagreeable and
fidgety Clovis, had reported mat everyone up
in the elegant Church Hill district was certain
North Carolina would secede within seven days.
"comand they've just appointed Brigadier Johnston
to take command of the state troops assembling at
Harper's Ferry."
Margaret overheard Mrs. Honeyman's remark as
she finished writing the order for a uniform. The uniform
would be worn by a young man who belonged to one
of the volunteer units. Margaret had taken his
measurements with considerable embarrassment; she'd
turned red as a tomato when she'd knelt and run
the tape up hisinseam.
But he'd been polite. Hadn't joked or taken
advantage of her embarrassment As she'd performed
the unladylike task, Margaret consoled herself
by recalling the extra profit Aunt Eliza
realized from uniforms. The gentlemen's tailor
shops couldn't keep up with the demand comanother sign
of the disruption in the city Margaret Marble had called
home for thirteen of her eighteen years.
Trade in uniforms had become so brisk,
Margaret had been forced to resign her part-time
position at West and Johnston, the book and
music store where she'd formerly clerked three days
a week because
The Titans363
Aunt Eliza couldn't afford to pay her fun
wages. Although Margaret was now working exclusively
at La Mode, she received no extra money.
Most of the shop's increased income went to purchase
additional fabric and decorative materials for the
next batch of uniforms.
Margaret didn't object She owed
Eliza Marble more than she could ever repay. She
did her work faithfully, even though she disliked the
uniform business and all it represented.
Of late, her dislike had changed to outright fear. The
transformation had started on that showery afternoon when
Gideon Kent had wajked into West and
Johnston's to buy his book on cavalry
tactics. He was tall; boisterous comandthe
possessor of the most appealing blue eyes she'd
ever seen.
Something had happened between them. Something instantaneous
and dizzying. Because of him, she feared and loathed the
foolish enthusiasm sweeping the city. He had no
notion of the real meaning of war. But she did. She
saw a devastating reminder when she went home every
evening to the dingy suburb of Rockett's.
As she finished writing the instructions for the uniform, a
picture of eastern Kentucky came into her thoughts.
She saw the green, peaceful mountains. She'd been
very small when she'd left Kentucky. But her mind
still stored a few images of that sweet time before the
Sergeant had gone off to Mexico, leaving a small
daughter and an ailing wife who died of influenza the
first winter he was away. When he came home-the
memory of the first sight of him still had power
to terrify her- he was incapable of running the farm.
They'd sold it, and ever since, they'd survived on
the charity of Eliza Marble, a spare, graying
spinster with a pleasantly prunish face.
"Brigadier Johnston? Is that a fact!"
Aunt Eliza said. The words were muffled because her
mouth was
364Cy at the Ed`e of War
full of pirn. Her brattish customer eyed the
pins With apprehension:
"Mama, she's going to jab me with one of those."
"Clovis, you hush," Mrs. Honeyman said.
"Else I'll jab you myself!"
The little boy raised a hand in front of his face.
From her position behind a counter, Margaret saw him
tide out his tongue. Chattering on, Mrs.
Honeyman didn't notice:
"I was just as surprised as you, Eliza. Evervone
thought General Lee would get the command. He's such a
gracious, charming man-was
"And a true Christian," Aunt Eliza commented.
"Johnston, you know, was only a general because the
rank went with his job. They say he's a regular
little gamecock about rank. He insisted on taking
charge here because he was higher than Lee in the
Federal service. H Beauregard comes north,
Johnston will probably demand to be Bory's
superior too-even though Bory's fought a battle
and Johnston hasn't."
Margaret finished her notations and said pleasantly:
"I don't think you can call the bombardment of a
surrounded fort a battle, Mrs. Honeyman."
The well-dressed woman looked startled, then
insulted. Aunt Eliza was on her knees again,
busying with the tape and pins. Clovis tried to kick
her while his mother's head was turned. She pinched his
leg. He squealed.
"Oh, dear, Clovis," she said. "The pin
slipped."
Clovis reddened. Aunt Eliza gave Margaret
a look conveying her disapproval of the comment to Mrs.
Honey- man.
Mrs. Honeyman was more direct:
"You certainly speak your mind, Margaret. Several
of the ladies at St. Paul's have asked why you
don't join your aunt in the evening and help us sew
tents and pre
The Titans365
pare lint and bandages. Fve told them you have strong
feelings against our cause. Haven't I,
Eliza?"
"Frequently," Aunt Eliza said, almost sighing.
St. Paul's, just up by Capitol Square, was an
affluent church. Margaret and her aunt were perhaps its
poorest members. Still, Eliza Marble had lived in
Richmond all her life. When it came
to religion, she refused to acknowledge any other
resident-or any other Episcopalian comz her
better.
But Margaret had challenged a paying customer. The
older woman tried to take a bit of the heat out of the
situation:
"You know the reason for Margaret's feelings. Her
father-was
"Yes, yes!" Mrs. Honeyman interrupted.
"But it's no excuse. Not when that black-nigger
Republican in Washington has thrown down the
glove! The sovereign states of the South have every right
to undo a compact into which they entered voluntarily. For
Lincoln to say otherwise is illegal. It can't
be tolerated!"
"Mrs. Honeyman," Margaret said quietly,
"it's all very fine to indulge in such talk. It's
all very fine to drive out to Camp Lee with lunch
baskets for the boys, and wave the new
Stars and Bars and brag about whipping the Yankees in
a month-was
Aunt Eliza stood up suddenly. Pudgy-faced
Clovis directed a venomous stare at the
unpatriotic girl behind the counter. Gently but
firmly, Eliza said, "Please, Margaret You have
a right to your opinions-wrong as they are. But do try
to remember you're speaking to a patron."
Margaret's eyes blazed. Her head up, her chin
thrust forward, she refused to be intimidated by her
aunt's request comor Mrs. Honeyman's
unfriendly expression:
"Have you ever lost a loved one in a war, Mrs.
Honeyman?"
366Cy at the Edge of War
"No. I have not I can't say the question's of any
relevance-was
"But it is. Everyone in Richmond looks on the
war as a-a carnival! Wait till you see one of
your relatives bleeding-maimed. Fighting
Yankees won't be a jolly sport after that!"
"Margaret, I must insist you stop!" There was frost
in Aunt Eliza's voice. "Take that
dragoon's measurements to the workroom-this instant"
"All right," Margaret said, infuriated but
outwardly pliant She shouldn't embarrass her
aunt any further- or cause the loss of an
order. She picked up the paper on which she'd been
writing. Why was she so irritable today?
And every day?
She knew. The larger the reality of war loomed, the
more she detested all the posturing. Attempted
to withdraw from it; seal off her emotions so as not to be
touched by it in any way.
But her emotions were touched. For one very special
reason.
She walked from the amber of the sun-filled shop into the
darker back room. Willa Perkins, an
undernourished, poorly dressed white girl bent
over a work table, laboriously scissoring pieces
of a trousers pattern from butternut cloth. Partially
completed garments of every color from dull gray
to gaudy azure lay on chairs and cartons.
Finished, boxed uniforms jammed wooden shelves
along one entire wall.
"Here's another, Willa." She handed the notes
to the pinch-faced girl
"Oh, Lord," Wffla sighed. "I'm so far behind,
I ain't ever gonna catch up."
"Ill be back this evening to help you and the
other girls."
Willa rolled her tongue in her cheek. "Gonna
see your young gentleman first?"
The Titans367
"That's right."
"I'm kinda surprised you took up with him. I
mean, he is a soldier-was
"He's a cavalryman."
And I wish to God he weren't.
"I seen him Monday when he come in. He's
mighty handsome in that hoosar suit."
"It's not hoosar, Willa, it's hussar"
Margaret tried to be kindly about correcting the
girl's pronunciation. Willa, too, lived out in
Rockett's. Her father was a longshoreman at the
nearby port.
Despite Willa's lack of education, she had an
intuitive intelligence. She knew there was a
contradiction in Margaret's choice of a male friend.
A contradiction that was making Margaret more miserable
by the day.
Margaret Marble was of slender build but with a round and
ample bosom. She had a generous mouth, brown
hair that matched her animated eyes and a stubby
nose she'd always hated because it made her
look boyish. And if she had any enemy on this
golden afternoon-Wednesday, the fifteenth of May-it
wasn't some faceless Yank. It was Gideon
Kent himself.
Gideon had charmed her on sight. He'd walked
into West Johnston's and boldly engaged her in
conversation after he bought his book. For practically the
first time in her life, she'd found her hands tingling;
her laugh sounding too shrill; her breast rising and
falling too rapidly. She kept telling herself he
was a soldier. To no avail.
She'd seen him almost daily for the past month. And of
late, she'd frequently asked herself whether it was
possible to care for a man and despise him at the
same time.
In a way it was a dishonest question. She didn't
despise Gideon at all. The mere prospect
of meeting him again tonight filled her with excitement But
she did despise the abandon with which he was plunging
into the preparations for war. She considered that part of his
368Cy at the Edge of War
character to be her enemy. An enemy against whom she had
to wage her own war-
She'd never known a boy who affected her as
deeply as Gideon did. She'd only
had a few beaux. Two could be classed as serious.
Both had come from good families. She'd finally
allowed each to call on her at the flat in
Rockett's instead of meeting her in the center of
town. Neither boy had ever come back:
Truly, Mama, I had no idea the girl lived
in such a squalid place. Certainly I won't
see her another time.
Gideon knew where she lived. But she'd never
permitted him to escort her home. Nor had she
ever spoken a word about her father.
She thought of Gideon almost constantly when she was
away from him; thought of him in ways Aunt Eliza
would have considered distinctly improper.
Margaret was a virgin. Not from any overwhelming
devotion to prudery. Not even because the church she
attended with Aunt Eliza on Sundays taught that
such restraint was the moral way. She was a virgin
by her own choice.
All she had to offer the man she would finally marry was
herself. She wanted that self to be as valuable as
possible. To her, valuable meant
unsullied-unused. She had no money. No
social standing. Just herself-
Willa's giggle pulled her back
to reality:
"Oh, you really must have a case! You ain't heard a
word."
Blushing,-Margaret answered, "What did you
say?"
In the front of the shop, Aunt Eliza and Mrs.
Honeyman were concluding their business.
"I asked if you'd heard any more about the capital
comin' here from Montgomery."
"The capital of the Confederacy? Aunt Eliza
says the move will take place by the end of the month."
"An' Mr. Davis'll be here, too?"
"Mr. Davis and that whole Western crowd." To the
The Titans369
people of Richmond, deep-South states such as
Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana were
practically the frontier; distinctly cruder than the
Old Dominion. "Then watch this town go
topsy-turvy! Goodness knows what will become of
General Lee-was
"He's gonna run the army, ain't he?"
"Probably not, Willa. Mr. Davis has
two titles. President and commander-in-chief.
Mrs. Tatnall-the lady who orders yards of
lace on all her dresses-was Willa
nodded "comwell, she was down in Montgomery for the
inauguration. There was a story going around that Davis
just about wept when he was offered the presidency."
"God's truth?"
"Mrs. Tatnall swore to it"
"Why'd he bawl?"
"I don't know as he actually did it-he just felt
like it. He wanted to be general of all the
Confederate armies. More than anything, he fancies
himself a soldier. Hell undoubtedly try to keep
General Lee in the background, and make sure
Lee knows who's giving the orders. Of course,"
Margaret added, "nothing's official until the people go
to the polls a week from tomorrow and ratify the secession
vote."
"But they're goin' to-to " Willa exclaimed.
"Everywhere except the western counties. Aunt
Eliza says there are a lot of submissionists out
mere. But the majority will approve. Then-all of
General Lee's troops will be swallowed up in the
Confederate Provisional Army."
"Includin' your hoos-your hussar?"
Margaret nodded.
"I can see why you'd look sorta glum."
"Was I looking glum?"
"Sure were. I'd think you'd be proud-was
"Proud that he wants a chance to be killed?"
Tears sprang into her eyes. "For that, he's a
fool! So is every
370Cy at the Edge of War
one in Richmond who doesn't count the cost of-oh,
never mind!"
"Lord, it must be love to make you bust out cryin' so
often," Willa said. Margaret whirled away and
hurried toward the front, wiping her eyes. She was
ashamed of herself.
"coma deposit of three and a half dollars will be
ample, Mrs. Honeyman."
"Very well. Just a moment-was
The woman fumbled in her reticule. Clovis
stood by the door, watching pedestrians on the
sun-dappled sidewalk. Mrs. Honeyman
couldn't locate what she wanted:
"I do declare patriotism has its inconveniences-was
And many more to come, Margaret thought.
Aunt Eliza looked apprehensive about her
return. She kept her head down to conceal her
reddened eyes and set about straightening bolts of yard
goods.
"comI can't get used to these Corporation of
Richmond bills flooding the town-well, finally!
Here's a two. A one. And a fifty-cent bill."
The paper money, engraved on pink stock, crinkled
loudly as Mrs. Honeyman paid the deposit.
"Ill call for the suit Saturday morning. I
want Clovis to wear it for Holy Communion on
Sunday."
Clovis looked anything but holy as h" stuck out
his tongue again anc! uttered a retching noise.
"Clovis Honeyman, do you want God to strike
you dead?"
"Rather He did that than make me go to rotten old
church."
"Whatever am I going to do with you? It's your father's
fault! I rue the day I married a godless
drinker of alcohol!"
"Amen!" Aunt Eliza, said with conviction. "I
hope we'll have the suit finished on time. However,
you do realize the work for the military takes
precedence-was
"Naturally. That's of first importance to everyone."
The Titans371
Her glance at Margaret was meant to make the girl
feel uncomfortable. It did. "Will I see you at
church this evening, Eliza?"
"I'll be there."
"Good day, then. Come along, you ungrateful child!"
Mrs. Honeyman seized Clovis by the ear lobe
and marched him out. The closing door muffled his
squeals and the laughter of a group from the elite home
guard unit, Company F, just passing.
The moment the door clicked, Eliza Marble charged
toward her niece like an infantryman on the
attack.

"Margaret, your comments to Mrs. Honeyman were
entirely out of line! You're making it very difficult
for me to deal with our regular customers."
Margaret bristled. "I try to be courteous.
What's wrong with saying what I believe?"
"Nothing-except when you argue against the war. This is
a Southern city-was
"And I was born a Southerner! At least I've
always considered Kentucky part of the South. I just think
the war's foolish. I think it can't be won. I
only asked Mrs. Honeyman an honest question. How
will your customers feel when their sons die? Or come
home like Papa-?"
Aunt Eliza shook her head. "Despite the
regrettable fact that army life left your
father in the thrall of spirits, I've always been proud
of the Sergeant's service to-was
"His service destroyed him!"
Though the older woman looked angry for a moment,
she said nothing. She pursed her lips; drew a
deep breath. Touched Margaret's hand gently:
"I understand. But try to see my point of view-was
Shame-faced, Margaret said, "I win. I'm
sorry I
372Cy at the Edge of War
spoke sharply. It seems that's all I do
lately. Fly off the handle-was
"I know one reason. That young man." Margaret's
silence was an admission that Eliza Marble had hit
on the truth. The older woman went on:
"I don't blame you for being in a turmoil.
Romance does that to young girls. And Mr. Kent's
certainly good looking. Quite polite, too. Perhaps-was
She paused. "Perhaps it's time I asked one or
two questions about him."
Margaret fretted, aware of time hurrying by. But
she wanted to make amends: "All right."
"First of all-and most important-is Mr. Kent
a cold-water man?"
"No, he isn't." She glided from the
truth to a fib. "I don't believe he takes
anything stronger than beer, though."
"No distilled spirits?"
"I've never seen him suffering the effects of spirits."
It was a truth that evaded a lie. Gideon had in
fact told her of several occasions when a supply
of busthead had been smuggled into camp, and an evening
of surreptitious celebrating had been followed
by a morning of pounding headaches and bleary vision.
But she didn't consider drinking liquor a sin, as
Aunt Eliza did Regrettable as it was, men
sometimes needed liquor to ease their anxiety or their
suffering. The Sergeant was a perfect example.
Eliza Marble, however, would never have agreed. She was
an ardent member of the temperance movement
Supporting her niece and the Sergeant wasn't the
sole reason she was always short of funds. She
spent sizable sums to help pay the expenses of
reformed drunkards who came to Richmond
to lecture to the local Temperance Union.
And she collected books and pamphlets on the
evils
The Titans373
of drink. She owned a rare copy of An Inquiry
into the Effect of Spiritous Liquors on the
Human Body and Mind, a classic on the
subject even though it was years old. The tract's
author was Dr. Benjamin Rush, a signer of the
Declaration, surgeon general of the Continental
Army, and later professor of medicine at the
University of Pennsylvania. Eliza was famous
at local temperance meetings for her ability
to rise and repeat in ringing tones Dr. Rush's
description of the way "ardent spirits" affected an
individual:
was They cause hgn in folly to resemble a calf.
In stupidity, an ass. In roaring, a mad bull.
In quarreling and fighting, a dog. In cruelty, a
tiger. In fetor, a skunk. In filthiness, a
hog. And in obscenity, a he-goat."" Margaret
knew the litany by heart
Aunt Eliza's library included several other
publications of note-among them the six color
illustrations prepared by Dr. Sewell of
Columbian College, which showed the degeneration of the
human stomach from a pale pink-the "Healthfuf"
state-to a condition in which bilious purples,
browns and blacks demonstrated "Death
by Delirium Tremens."
She owned an 1855 first edition of Mr.
T. S. Arthur's classic work, Ten Nights in
a Barroom and What I Saw There, as well as a
paper-covered copy of the stage dramatization and
sheet music for the play's plaintive Lamont,
"Father, dear father, come home with me now," which was sung
in the drama by a golden-haired child seeking to rescue
Papa from the evils of the Sickle and Sheaf
Tavern.
Further, Aunt Eliza possessed rock-like
faith in the scientific accuracy of Khtredge's
pamphlet recounting horrific stories of
tosspots who had exhaled too close to an open
flame, caught fire and beer incinerated by the
alcohol in their systems.
"I trust he doesn't frequent taverns?"
Aunt Eliza continued.
374Cy at the Edge of War
"Not that I'm aware."
Another fib for which she felt guilty. But she
didn't want her aunt to deny her permission to see
Gideon.
"Good. Even John Adams knew the evils of
taverns. He called them the spawning ground of
diseases, vicious habits, bastards and
legislators."
M
Margaret felt it wiser to refrain from smiling.
"Yes, she said soberly, "I remember."
"So Mr. Kent is not a victim of the viper in the
bottle-?"
"Oh, definitely not"
"I'm delighted to hear it. Now to a somewhat more
delicate subject Has your relationship with him
progressed beyond-that is-has it led to-physical
intimacies?"
Margaret flushed again. "Aunt Eliza, we're
only friends!"
"Then the answer is no?"
Truthfully this time: "That's right"
I'm pleased. You understand the reason for my concern.
With emotions running so high, it would be easy for a young
girl to be carried away into-behavior she would
later regret." Never having been married, even a
circumlocution pertaining to sex was enough to make
Eliza Marble beet-faced.
"Aunt Eliza, you've been very generous to Papa and
me-was
The older woman gestured. "Bosh! Weak though he
is, the Sergeant is my brother. You two are my
only family."
"That's why I wouldn't do anything to hurt you or
dishonor you."
Aunt Eliza hugged her. "Thank you. You've
answered my questions."
"I have one more thing to say. I truly apologize for
offending Mrs. Honeyman. I know I spoke out of
turn, but I can't help how I feel This war is
wrong. Because
The Titans375
it's hopeless. Principles don't win battles.
Men and guns win them. And the North has more of
both."
"Child, there hasn't even been any fighting yet-to "
"But the Yankees are gathering in Washington.
I've heard they'll be across the Potomac by the end
of the month."
"It's possible. However-was She looked determined.
"The people of Virginia have always been willing to stand up
for what they believe. Now is no exception. If
there's ever been an hour when Virginians were called
on to show courage, that hour has come."
"I appreciate what you're saying, but-was The
outburst came against her will: "You've seen what
courage did to Papa! It ruined his life!"
"And yours?" Aunt Eliza asked
softly.
"No, please-I didn't mean that. Ill always
take care of him. I love him. But women like
Mrs. Honeyman don't have a notion of what war
is going to cost! Poverty instead of prosperity.
Mutilations and wounds instead of strength and health.
Pain and death instead of happiness and life--"
Aunt Eliza was thin-lipped again. "And for that reason
you believe we should be submissionists?"
"No, we-oh, I don't know. I don't know-was
she cried.
Eliza Marble put her arm around her niece. "We
do what we must, child. Former President Quincy
Adams once said that if the sections of the country no
longer felt a magnetism of common interests and
sympathies, then it was better for the sections to go their
separate ways. 'Let the disunited states part in
friendship"-that's exactly what he said. A
Yankee, too. But he was correct. We've
suffered too long under the abuse of those Northern
mobocrats."
"Aunt Eliza, the war's our fault! I'm not
averse to the South defending its rights by legal means,
but-was
376Cy at the Edge of War
"Legal means were exhausted years ago. We were
simply too witless to realize it."
"'So instead, we chose to start an insurrection."
"Which Old Abe means to put down so he can free
the nigras."
"He's never said that! Why, over and over, he's
promised he'll never interfere with slavery in the
South. He really wishes every black in the country
could be shipped over the water and resettled in
Liberia."
Eliza scoffed: "Do you really think he won't
interfere? Lincoln's going to be controlled by men like
that abolitionist he put in charge of his treasury-was
"Chase."
"Yes. And Thad Stevens, the Congressman who
keeps a mongrel nigra woman right in his own
house in Pennsylvania. No-was An assured
shake of her head. "This had to come. Ever since they
hung that maniac Brown for trying to start an
uprising, you could feel the mood of the state change."
That was true enough. Once the immediate terror of John
Brown's aborted raid had passed, militia
organization and drill throughout the city had
intensified.
"But we mustn't allow ourselves to get
depressed, Margaret. Most everyone believes the
fighting-if any- will be of very short duration."
"Evidently Mr. Lincoln doesn't feel that
way."
"I suspect his call for additional volunteers
is just a bluff."
"Forty-two thousand men? To serve for three years-?"
"Or less, if there's a speedy conclusion to-w
"That doesn't sound like a bluff to me! Besides, what
difference does it make how long a man serves?
It only takes a second for him to become like-like-was
She stopped; turned away. Long ago, she'd
vowed to put an end to these arguments. She seemed
powerless to doit
The Titans377
Aunt Eliza sighed again. "You're an admirable
girl, Margaret. Spirited. Determined-you know how much
I admire the way you took your education into your own
hands because we couldn't afford a proper girl's
school. I love you like my own. But you do have some
peculiar ideas-misguided ones, frankly. I
think you'll abandon them when you realize our cause
is just. As a church-going woman, I've never
approved of slavery. I think it should be
abolished-and would be, one day, if left
to run its course. Many people in Virginia feel the
same way. But it's gone beyond the matter of the
nigras now. It's gone to a question of our
Constitutional rights. And who's to say Mr. Kent
won't come out of it unscathed? Not every young chap who
joins an army suffers what the Sergeant-was
She drew a quick breath, realizing her blunder.
Awkwardly, she patted her niece's arm:
"Enough glum talk. Neither of us can change what's
going to happen. So we might as well take each
day's blessings and appreciate them. Go meet your
young man. You'd better have something to eat first-was
She went behind a counter and knelt. Margaret heard
the rattle of the cashbox lid. In a moment,
Eliza pressed a fifty-cent bill
into Margaret's hand. The pink paper bore a
portrait of balding, bespectacled Governor
Letcher.
"Take this. Buy an ice at Pizzini's.
You've half an hour until Mr. Kent comes in
from Camp Lee, don't you?"
Margaret nodded. She was ashamed of her inability
to control her temper. Despite good intentions, she
was beginning to be caught up in the city's hysteria.
She held out the bill. "Thank you,
Aunt Eliza, but you keep this. I'm not hungry.
And the shop needs every penny."
"Nonsense. La Mode has never made so much
money."
378Cy at the Edge of War
"Taken in so much, you mean." "Either way, let's
enjoy it while it lasts." She tucked the bill
back into her niece's fingers. "Be thankful you've
a young man who likes you. I-was A resigned,
almost sad shrug. "comI never had a beau. I was
too plain, I suppose. Or too religious.
But you're lucky. Mr. Kent seems very upright
Your words about his refusal to drink liquor are most
reassuring. I also happen to know he comes of
reputable people down in Lexington."
Margaret gasped: "How did you learn that?" She'd
told her aunt very little of what she knew about
Gideon's family. She feared an adverse
reaction on two counts:
His stepfather was a member of a notorious profession.
And his true father's history was even more suspect.
He was a former Virginia circuit rider who'd
been thrown out of his church for pronouncements against
slavery, then turned to journalism-Yankee
journalism comin Washington.
"When the welfare of my niece is involved, I
make it my business to ask questions," Aunt Eliza
replied. "Now you do as I say. Stop for an ice
at the Palace of Sweets. But avoid the
soldiers-except for Mr. Kent." At last,
Margaret laughed. "That's impossible. Six
months ago, there were thirty-seven thousand people in
Richmond. Now the population's doubled-and most of the
new arrivals are military men. They seem
to feel wearing a uniform gives them the right
to approach any young lady they meet Even so, most
of them are gentlemen-was
But not all. She'd been the target of some ugly,
lustful glances from members of out-of-state units.
She didn't want Aunt Eliza to worry,
though:
"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself.
Besides, I'll be meeting Gideon while it's still
daylight"
The Titans379
"Have a good time. Make sure you don't go home
alone after dark."
"I'm planning to come back and help Willa and the
other girls. Gideon will have drill again this evening."
And I don't want him to see that terrible
little place where comwe live. I don't want him
to see that pathetic man who glories in having
everyone call him Sergeant-and whose sole friend is
another army man he hasn't seen in over a
decade.
The man her father revered-the only person with whom he
took the trouble to correspond-seemed to share a
common misery with the Sergeant Military service had
left him totally unfit for civilian life.
He, too, had a drinking problem. He couldn't
make a go of any business he tried. Yet
Margaret's father reveled in the occasional letters he
received from the man in Illinois. He always referred
to the man by his old army nickname, Uncle Sam,
as if it were something to be proud of, instead of a reminder
of the inability to succeed at anything except killing
other men while wearing a uniform. What an idol
to worship! A sot doomed to failure and
obscurity for the rest of his life-
"Then we can ride home together on the horsecar after
I finish at Still Paul's," Aunt Eliza said
with a satisfied nod. "Hurry along, now. Enjoy
this wonderful weather and your soldier's company while
you can."
The words meant in kindness lingered in
Margaret's mind, a fearful reminder:
While you can.
Margaret returned to the workroom for her spoon
bonnet and shawl, though she doubted she'd need either
in the mellow May twilight In fact, she already
felt
380Cy at the Edge of War
warm under Che layers of crinoline that stiffened the
skirt of her long-darted walking dress.
Two years ago, when she was just coming into fun
physical maturity and beginning to have those disturbing
thoughts about intimacy with a man after marriage, a
lady from Church Hill had ordered the dress, then
died of a seizure during a spell of steamy summer
weather. Since the woman's measurements matched
Margaret's, Aunt Eliza had given her the
dress as a birthday present The gold fabric was
still bright, and complemented her brown eyes and hair. But
she wished propriety didn't demand all the
bulky petticoats, not to mention lace-trimmed
underdrawers.
Willa Perkins watched her primping in a
speckled mirror. She giggled again. Margaret
said, "Jealous!" in a teasing way, and left the
shop.
Our Rome, Eliza Marble had called Richmond
in those first, dimly remembered weeks after she and her
father had arrived from Kentucky. Gradually,
Margaret began to appreciate the term. She came
to love the genteel, slow-paced city of the
lulls-Chimborazo, Shockoe, Gamble's and the
rest
Aunt Eliza had shown her all the sights.
Walked her past the splendid Georgian homes
of mellow brick in Church Hill. Strolled with
her to the leafy quiet of Hollywood Cemetery;
only three years ago, Margaret and her aunt
nad watched President Monroe's remains
reburied there, returned at last to his native
Virginia. An elegant New York militia
regiment had accompanied the coffin from the North. The
soldiers had been entertained in some of the best
homes. Today that sort of hospitality was
unthinkable.
Certain things hadn't changed, of course. There were still
familiar sounds and smells in the May air as she
hurried up the brick walk toward the
Spotswood.
Fine carriages traveled Main Street along with
huge tobacco wagons" drawn by lathered
mules hitched four
The Titans381
abreast. The famous illuminated clock in front
of the Meyers and Janke jewelry emporium
resonantly struck the hour of five.
Windlass-driven, its powerful chime could be heard
for a mile.
The five strokes were counterpointed by the wail of a
train coming in across the sbrty-foot-high Richmond
and Petersburg trestle spanning the James. And,
as always, she could hear the soothing murmur of the
falls.
Despite the influx of soldiers, certain sections
of the city retained a peaceful air. Capitol
Square at the crest of Shockoe's, for instance.
There stood the elegant capitol building
President Jefferson had designed. Its
rotunda housed Houdon's full-length statue of
Washington, as well as a Houdon bust of the
Marquis de Lafayette. Gideon claimed the
founder of his family, a Bostonian named
Phillip Kent, had known Lafayette
personally.
With delight, Margaret recalled the public
holiday celebrating completion of a second
monument to Washington. Crawford's equestrian
statue had been unveiled in the square in '58.
Wags noted the rear of the great leader's horse
pointed North.
The statue's pedestal featured figures of three
other great Virginians. Jefferson. Mason, who
had hammered out the Bill of Rights. And Patrick
Henry, who had stood up in old St. John's
on Church Hill and thundered that he preferred death
if he were deprived of liberty. Capitol
Square was a proud reminder that the state was- one
of the true wellsprings of American freedom.
Because so much that was good and meaningful had come from
Virginia-and Richmond itself-Margaret was saddened
to see the city transformed. The evidence of
transformation was nowhere more evident than on Main
Street
True, the lawyers and the businessmen, the fashionable
ladies and the easy-going free blacks still crowded
382Cy at the Edge of War
the walks. But so did the newer arrivals-young men in
military costumes of every description.
She recognized members of local units. The
Blues. The Howitzers. The Henrico Light
Dragoons. Mingled among them, in
costumes that were homely or operatic or somewhere
between, were men belonging to regiments from other parts of the
South. Just in the short distance to the Spotswood, she
saw a group of Georgians in full-skirted
butternut coats with green trim. She saw half
a dozen from Alabama wearing smart blue. She
saw towering, long-haired men with out-sized silver
spurs and fringed buckskin jackets. They had
revolvers and Bowie knives in their wide leather
belts and lumps of tobacco bulging in their cheeks.
Texans.
She passed two men in shabby Zouave uniforms who
were lounging in front of a haberdasher's. One, a
wart- faced fellow, whispered something to his
companion. She only caught the words, "coml to give
that a tumble."
Staring straight ahead, she rushed on, passing two
more Texans. She turned at the sound of a commotion.
One of the Texans had hauled the wart-faced man
off his feet. Holding the offender by the jacket, the
Texan bounced him against the store front:
"You Tigers are gonna have to learn how to speak
decent when they's ladies on the street-was
"Put me down, you son-of-a-bitch!" the Zouave
howled. The other Zouave pulled out a set
of knuckledusters. People crowded around Margaret
to watch.
The Zouave with the knuckle-dusters crept up behind the
first Texan. His companion shoved the point of his
Bowie into the Zouave's back.
"No, sir," he said quietly, confiscating the
knuckles. The first Texan continued his lecture:
"comelse the First Texas win see to it that you're sent
back to where you come from. The New Orleans jails."
He set the gulping Tiger on his feet with a jolt
Then
The Titans383
he turned and sought Margaret. He swept off his
broad- brimmed, cream-colored hat:
"My apologies for the vulgarity he directed against
you, ma'am."
"Thank you," she said with an embarrassed smile.
There was brief applause. The small crowd
dispersed, the two members of the Tigers departing faster
than the rest. The wart-faced one glanced back at
Margaret, fury in his eyes.
The Texan marred his gallant behavior by spitting
a long stream of tobacco juice toward the curb.
As he and his friend sauntered off, he didn't
notice that a few drops struck the hem
of Margaret's dress, leaving stains.
"Scum-outright scum," she heard a Virginia
Military Institute cadet exclaim to another as
they passed her going the other way. "Those
Louisiana ruffians shouldn't be allowed to fight under
the same flag as-was
The voices faded, overlapped by the noise of some
citizens gathered outside the Spotswood. They were
shouting questions at a handsome officer Margaret
recognized instantly. The officer wore a cocked
hat with a black plume, a huge saber and a
close-fitting roundabout that showed off his
well-proportioned figure. John Bankhead
Magruder had commanded the First U.s. Artillery
until he'd resigned to serve his native state-
where the people pridefully referred to him as Prince
John.
The crowd was asking about the progress of the
artillerymen he was training out on the campus of
Richmond College. Magruder smiled:
"Why, my boys are developing into first-class
cannoneers. Any Yank who sets foot on
Virginia soil will soon find out-and go back to the
North multiplied into four or five parts."
Laughter. Whistles. Magruder climbed
into a waiting carriage. Several V.m.i,
cadets began to lead the others in a chorus of "The
Bonnie Blue Flag." The cadets
384Cy at the Edge of War
came from Gideon's home town. Because of their
experience, they'd been rushed to Richmond
to supervise the instruction of the newest recruits.
One of their professors was Colonel T. J.
Jackson, whom Johnston would soon relieve
at Harper's Ferry.
"Hurrah! Hurrah! For Southern rights,
hurrah! Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag,
That bears a single star!"
There was more applause as the discordant version of the
popular new song came to an end. Margaret pushed
through the crowd, ignoring an inebriated gentleman
who tipped his hat and three soldiers who tried
to attract her attention.
Her encounter with the crude Louisiana soldiers
lingered in her mind as she hurried down the slope of
Main Street. Richmond was the same and not the
same. Smoke still plumed from the stacks of the
Tredegar she glimpsed far down on her left as
she crossed Eighth. Gamble's Hill still afforded
one of the loveliest and most panoramic
views of the city. But the best times were gone-
The times when great men-the novelist Thackeray, for
instance-had come to lecture and savor the beauty of
old residential streets lined with lindens and
maples and tulip trees. Only last October,
Lord Renfrew, the nineteen-year-old Prince of
Wales, had been received with full civic pomp.
In Richmond Margaret had found a rich
intellectual heritage. The Southern Literary
Messenger, for a time under the assistant editorship
of the curious and tormented Mr. Poe, had turned the
city into one of the literary centers of the western world.
Much of her own self-education had been made
possible because the people of Richmond owned and loved
books. Customers of her aunt gladly loaned
them to her. She'd even read Uncle
The Titans385
Tom's Cabin, though it was disguised with a false
cover declaring the contents to be Gibbon.
Here, too, she'd sampled culture from beyond the
state's borders. Touring troupes played the
Marshall Theater regularly. By hoarding spare
coins, she'd been able to spend a few wondrous
evenings in the Marshall's cheapest gallery seats.
In the winter of '59 she'd sighed for
weeks over a young, flamboyant supporting
player in a melodrama; a Mr. John W.
Booth of the famous acting family.
The pleasant decade in which she'd come to young
womanhood seemed almost an illusion now. The
Trede- gar smoke still bannered the sky at evening.
The flour drays still rumbled to the port from the
impressive nine- story Gailego Mill-the
largest in the world, people boasted. Occasionally you could still
hear lovely, tilting Latin speech when the South
American coffee ships came up the James
to unload fragrant sacks of beans.
You could hear the work chanties of the blacks in the
tobacco factories. The cadence of a gallop
bursting from a fine house during the height of the
social season.
You could hear it all, but less clearly. New
sounds had intruded-
On the night of the news of Sumter's fall, the
Fayette Artillery had fired a hundred rounds
in Capitol Square. Skyrockets had
exploded in the heavens. Blazing barrels of tar
sizzled on the corner of every major intersection. The
church bells rang almost until morning. And she'd
walked with Aunt Eliza in the midst of
mobs waving the South Carolina palmetto,
screaming oaths against Lincoln, cheering
Beauregard's name and howling "Down with the old
flagl"
She'd watched, horrified, when people poured through
Rockett's the Sunday night following the
secession vote. Wild rumors were sweeping the
city. The Yankee gunboat Pawnee was steaming
up the river to menace the port! Mobs turned out with
every sort of
386Cy at the Edge of War
weapon, prepared to repel an attack that never
materialized.
On the once-drowsy streets, she'd seen other,
equally savage mobs hang straw men from the
stanchions of the gas lamps. The dummies bore
crude placards:
HIS MAJESTY THE ORANGOUTANG.
HENRY WARD BEECHER, THE MAN WHO
HAS DONE MOST TO CAUSE OUR
PRESENT TROUBLE.
Garrison, Douglass, other abolitionists-their
effigies were hanged as well.
The voices of hate were being heard in Richmond,
along with the voices of false prophets.
The South's cause was just! The North would be
defeated in a swift, relatively bloodless war-
Was she the only person in the city who saw the
insanity of that? Who understood it took only one
bullet to destroy a man forever?
No matter. She was determined to prove her case
to Gideon Kent
I'll find some way, she thought as she rushed along
Main, Pizzini's and the half-dollar note
forgotten. I must.
If he goes to war thinking it's a grand crusade-a
lark-a holiday-
I can't make him understand what comwar really means,
I could lose him.
I mustn't lose him.
Because I- love him.
CHAPTER
The Amateur Cavalier
THEY HAD A SPECIAL meeting place on the
canal towpath, at the foot of Gamble's Hill.
The spot was equi-distant from the Tredegar Works
to the west and the sprawling, long-idle state armory
on the east.
Gideon was late.
Margaret paced, stepping aside from time
to time and smiling automatically as other couples
passed, whispering, laughing, holding hands. Her
eyes kept returning to the Tredegar across the
canal.
Even at this late hour of the day, workmen swarmed in the
yard. They were transferring scrap iron from wagons
to barrows and trundling it into the great, sooty
buildings. To be melted down to make new iron.
Iron for the instruments of war-
Both the Tredegar and the armory stood on a narrow
strip of land separating the river from the James
River and Kanawha Canal. The river purled,
glittering in the gold light of the sinking sun.
Further along the path in the canal basin, one of the
four-mile-an-hour packets from Lynchburg was
tying up.
Somewhere on the wooded slope behind her, she heard
loud, lusty singing. "Lorena." One of his
favorites.
She spun around, her heartbeat faster. There he
was! Running recklessly downhill among the
trees.
He waved, so vigorously the white plume bobbed
on
387
388The Amateur Cavalier
his visored leather shako. She waved in return,
her emotions all jumbled together. There was excitement;
apprehension; even a little amusement. Captain
Lester Macomb had outfitted his Hussars in what
he thought was the European mode. To a girl brought
up around an apparel shop, the captain's taste was
highly questionable.
Margaret and her aunt knew the yard goods merchant,
of course. Purchased bolts of cloth from him on
occasion. La Mode Shoppe hadn't been hired
to sew for Macomb's Hussars, however. Had the
reverse been true, Gideon would have looked less
garish-or Aunt Elzia would have been discharged from the
job for her protests.
Gideon's uniform consisted of new and beautifully
polished high boots, tight-fitting sky-blue
trousers and a matching coat The coat had a choker
collar and an excess of gaudy braid across the
front. At a distance, the outfit possessed a
certain showy splendor. Up close, its
shortcomings were more apparent.
The leather cavalryman's belt and the sabretache
attached to it by straps had been crudely cut and
laced by someone with no respect for leather or
workmanship. And Gideon lacked the final touch-the
saber itself. All he'd brought from Lexington were four
gifts from his mother's father:
The new boots; a 30-gauge revolving-cylinder
percussion shotgun from Colt's of Paterson; a
round-tree English saddle; and the absolutely
indispensible requirement comhis horse Dancer, a
handsome and spirited gray stallion.
Most of the seventy-eight men of Macomb's
Hussars were no better equipped, save for
Gideon's friend Rodney Arbuckle. Rodney
hailed from a Peninsula tobacco estate on the
Pamunkey River near White House. Rodney
had money-though not nearly as much as the dandies in the
celebrated Goochland Troop. Not only did
The Titans389
the boys from Goochland "-y dress more
splendidly, but the majority had two horses and a
black body servant
Still, Gideon Kent Was outrageously proud of his
troop and his uniform-including an absolutely
ghastly left-shoulder dolman. To spare his
feelings, Margaret hadn't told him the dolman was
poor-quality rabbit fur.
But it was the man, not the costume, that started
a pulse beat in her throat as he came
scrambling through the shrubbery at the foot of the hill.
His cheeks were flushed. His smile seemed to glow in
the twilight He called her name as he ran the last
hundred yards, waving again.
Why was he so excited? He was always in good spirits when
they met Tonight, though, she sensed a special
eagerness in him. His blue eyes shone as he jumped
over a low fern and landed on the path with a crunch.
He seized her shoulders; hugged her fiercely-
"Margaret I've got the grandest news! A lot
of it!"
The feel of his cheek set off little warm bursts all
through her body. Whenever he touched her, she ached in a
distinctly unladylike way.
"My Lord, Gideon-was Gasping and laughing, she
pulled away and straightened her bonnet "Such a
display in public!"
"Why shouldn't I make a display with my girl?"
He caught her hands in his. Despite their
frequent meetings, their physical contact had been
restrained. First handshakes. Then hand-holding.
Next, pecks on the cheek. Finally, kisses on
the mouth. They had advanced very properly and
cautiously to intimacy of the kind they shared
at this moment They stood close together while he
gazed down at her, his shako slightly awry. The
slanting sun fired the tawny hair around his ears.
His smile faded to an earnest look. Softly, he
said:
"My very favorite,"
"Oh, do you have others now?"
390The Amateur Cavalier
"Don't tease me. You've got to hear what we
did this afternoon."
A short distance behind them, another couple stopped.
The boy, one of the Greys, was whispering in the
girl's ear. She slapped his face lightly with her
glove. He laughed. The girl joined in. It was
clear what sort of suggestion he'd made.
A little embarrassed, Margaret linked her arm with
Gideon's and they walked the other way, toward the
canal basin, where the packet-handlers were unloading
cargo and swearing cheerfully. Shadows were lengthening on
the hill above the towpath.
"Exactly what did you do?" she asked.
"We held elections! Of course Macomb kept
his captaincy. He organized the troop, and he's
still the most popular man."
She knew his pause was deliberate.
"Is that all?"
"No, ma'am!" Bursting with pride, he turned and
laid both hands on her shoulders. "Miss Marble,
I have the honor to introduce the new second
lieutenant of Macomb's Hussars."
"Oh, Gideon-that's grand."
His face grew a shade less happy. "You really
don't sound enthusiastic."
"I am!" She squeezed his arm. Ignored
propriety and raised on tiptoe to kiss his
cheek. "I'm very proud."
It was an accomplishment Although many people said election of
officers was a poor way to establish the command
structure in a volunteer unit, it was the custom.
Only officers above the rank of regimental commander
were appointed by General Lee.
They resumed walking arm in arm. Margaret's breast
brushed his sleeve, a deliriously wicked
sensation.
"Actually," Gideon said, "I'd hoped for first
lieutenant. But Jack Harris got that. He's
always paying for rounds at the Spotswood Bar or
Mrs. Muller's Lager Beer Saloon. I
mink he starts his euchre games so he
The Titans391
can lose on purpose. I can't afford to buy
popularity."
Margaret had met the lean, dark-visaged Harris
at Camp Lee. She thought him coarse and shallow:
"Do you think Jack Harris is fit to be first
lieutenant?"
"Hell--oh, I'm sorry-was
"Stop. I'm used to your swearing by now."
He chuckled. "Guess I've fallen into the camp
habit. Anyway-the men like Jack. He's a
fair rider. His papa raises horses on their
place down near Petersburg. He's fond of
rough language, though. I mean really rough. I
don't know why. Maybe it makes him feel more of a
man. Trouble is, I doubt cussing will help him
when greater-than we see action. Men want to be
led, not brow beaten."
The last sentences spoiled the moment; reminded
Margaret of her fears for this tall, big-shouldered
young man from the Shenandoah who seemed so adult at
times, so full of boyish bravado at others.
When we see action.
Somehow, somehow, she had to convince him he wasn't
involved in a game or a pageant-
She hesitated to raise the subject when
he was so happy. She'd tried to discuss her
viewpoint several times before. He always acted
bewildered as well as vaguely annoyed that she'd
question his desire to fight for the South. She kept to a
safe subject:
"In my opinion your friend Rodney might have made
a better first lieutenant."
"Of course. But you know the situation with the boys whose
folks have any kind of money. They've got this
damned notion it's undemocratic and undignified
to be an officer. They'd rather serve in the line than
give orders to another gentleman. The boys from the
Valley sure don't think that way. But you still
haven't heard all the news."
"Tell me."
He grinned. "There's no drill tonight"
392The Amateur Cavalier
"Not at all?"
"No. Captain Macomb's mare took a fall
this afternoon. Broke both her forelegs. You should have
heard old Lester swear!"
"I should imagine. She was a lovely animal."
"What upset him most is having to rush around town
and find another. You know, I sometimes get worried
about the cavalry. How can we fight if every
man has to provide his own horse? What if we
lose half our horses in battle? We'd be at
half strength for days. Maybe weeks."
Battle. She tried to keep it from her mind.
"I thought the government owned the horses."
"Technically, they do. They take 'em over. They
provide forage, shoes, a smithy-and compensation at
forty cents a day per horse-was He was talking
rapidly, his arm across her shoulder and his eyes
focused somewhere in the delicate blue shadow along
the towpath.
So intense, she thought. The cavalier who has yet
to learn what battle really means-
"comand if a horse is lost in combat, the
government's supposed to reimburse the rider for the
animal's assessed value. But the man has to go
on furlough right away to locate a new one. It's
not so much the cost, it's the headache of searching. I
expect Macomb will be up all night visiting
stables. He'll be lucky if he finds a mount as
good as the mare at any price. The government's
gobbling the ones around here for artillery caissons,
ambulances-was
Though the May breeze was warm against her cheeks,
she shuddered. Gideon halted abruptly:
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, there is." He turned to her again, half his
face in sunlight, the other half dark. He touched
her chin. "I want to know."
"Well, I can't help shivering when you talk so
The Titans393
blithely about ambulances and-and combat. You sound as if
it's nothing but a grand game!"
Puzzled, he answered, "I've never been so
happy in my life. Finally, we're going to show the
Yanks they've pushed us too hard-for too long."
"You want to fight!" she exclaimed, more harshly
man she intended.
A sudden frown. "Yes, I do. So does every
fellow in the troop. You should have heard the cheering
yesterday when Wise came out to look us over."
"Wise? Oh-the former governor-was
Gideon nodded. "He's supposed to be a
brigadier before long. He gave a little speech-was
"Don't you mean sermon?"
Gideon's brows quirked up. "Why would you call
it that?"
"Well, I assume it's the same
pseudo-religious twaddle he's been
spouting all over town." Her mouth soured. was 'The
fiery baptism-?"' his
His zeal was as strong as her contempt: "He did
use those words. My God, I've never heard
anything so stirring. I can remember almost every sentence.
"You want war, fire, blood to purify you, and the
Lord of Hosts has demanded that you should walk through
fire and blood. You are called to the fiery
baptism, and I call upon you to come up to the
altar." his
Unsmiling, he added, "Wise is right I have a
duty. All of us d-now what's me trouble?"
"Your attitude! Are you going to let yourself be
influenced by senile old fools? If you're
injured, you won't remember a thing about duty-or
how glorious it is to go through the fiery baptisml"
"Now wait-was
"No! Is there one boy in your troop who's done
anything but fist-fight behind a barn?"
"No one except Macomb, probably. What
difference does it make?"
394The Amateur Cavalier
"All the difference. War's a horrible business.
You don't know how horrible!"
She spun away, rubbing her upper arms and
starine at the smoke streaming from the Tredegar
stacks. The smoke was black; forbidding in the pale,
sweet light of the fading afternoon.
"Why do you keep bringing that up?" Gideon snapped
at her. "Joining the troop was my choice."
"A foolish choice!"
"Hell backslash was He kicked stones on the
path. "Here I thought we'd have a grand evening together.
Go to supper comb you want to argue! That's a fine
how-do-you- do when time's so short!"
The rustle of the trees on Gamble's Hill
drifted to her in the silence. The falls murmured.
Cold clear through, she turned back to him. She
found she could barely speak:
"What do you mean, time's so short?"
He dragged off his shako. Slapped it against his
blue- clad thigh once-twice-struggling to master his
temper. Eventually he did:
"That's the third piece of news. On Sunday
we're breaking camp-was
Margaret's hands clenched.
"comprovided Captain Macomb finds a horse.
We're going up to Harper's Ferry."
"This soon?"
"It's a critical defense point Joe
Johnston's taking over, the command there."
Faintly: "I heard that this afternoon."
"He'll be an improvement over that lunatic
Presbyterian professor from the Institute!"
"Jackson?"
"The cadets call him Tom Fool."
Remembered pain flashed in his eyes. "I guess
I never mentioned he was my father's only friend after
Mama turned Papa out of the house. Jackson's
a fanatic. About discipline-about
The Titans395
observing the Sabbath-I can understand why he'd take
up with my father. Like to like!"
Gideon's face showed that sudden, flushed anger so
characteristic of him. It would probably make him a good
cavalry officer. She knew he was a good rider.
Almost fearless in committing himself and his mount when he
drilled at a gallop.
He seemed to want to say something else. She
waited. At last it came out:
"I didn't tell you I met my father in
Washington, did I?"
Surprised, she shook her head. "When?"
The color faded from his cheeks. He gazed in a
somber way at the gold and white riffles
on the river. "Last month. Right after I enlisted and
met you. My stepfather-was
"The actor?"
Gideon nodded. "Edward and Mama were in
Washington so'Edward could appear at a variety
hall. Actually, he had a more praiseworthy
purpose for being there-was
He drew her a few steps further along the path.
They reached a large stone. With a gesture, he offered
it as a seat, then squatted on the ground beside it
She laid a hand on his shoulder, hoping to soothe
away the unhappiness showing in his eyes. She was
thankful for his apparent need to talk about the
Washington encounter. The news about Sunday had
thrown her mind into chaos; she needed a chance to think.
Her thoughts sped ahead to what she might say later.
Not to persuade him to resign from the troop; he'd
never do that But she had to counteract the fatal
bravado that could lead him straight to the grave-or
to the kind of living death her father suffered.
He was speaking softly now:
"comhe stood up on the stage and led the crowd in
396The Amateur Cavalier
singing "Dixie's Land." There was a bad muss.
He got beaten by some thugs. Could have been
killed-was "Then he shouldn't have taken the chance." "Of
course he should have! Edward wanted to prove there's a
lot of Southern sympathy in Washington. I
admire him for it. But you haven't heard the most
peculiar part My father was in the audience. He
helped Edward escape. All that happened while
I was here. The night I got back, Papa burst
into our hotel room spouting a lot of accusations-was
"That was the first time you saw him?" "The first time since
Lexington." "Who was he accusing?"
"Edward. He claimed Edward was plotting to have him
murdered." There was disgust in his voice: "Mama
used to say he was unbalanced. Anyway, things-got
out of hand. I hit him with Edward's cane. More than
once."
A whisper: "Your own father?" "I lost my head."
His eyes grew defiant. "He called Mama
names. Filthy names. I'm not ashamed of what I
did. But-I can't explain it, exactly-I was
hurt and angry at the same time. I've always
respected Edward and his feelings for the South. But
it's not the same as loving a father. I guess I
hoped all the bad times would be forgotten someday-was
He shook his head. The breeze stirred green
branches behind them. Gideon's next words
seethed with bitterness:
"It won't happen. Everything Mama said in
Lexington is true. I saw it for myself. My
father's crazy."
Yet Margaret had the strange feeling the truth
made him grieve.
She touched his face. "Gideon-was His eyes were
lost in the Tredegar smoke. "What?" "You've
told me very little about what it was like with your father in
Lexington."
?"
The Titans397
"No point. It was miserable." He sat up a
bit straighter. "Mama's back there now. With
Edward. I had a note from them today."
"Are they going to stay?"
"Not indefinitely. When the capital of the
Confederacy moves here, Edward wants to volunteer
his services."
"To the army?"
"No, he's too old. No military experience,
either. He hopes to find work in some part of the
government. If he does, Mama will leave
Jeremiah with my grandfather. Captain Tunworth."
"Was it really terrible when your father left
home?"
"Bad enough that, I'd rather not talk about it
She hesitated, then plunged on:
"But I don't think we should hold anything back from
each other any longer."
He twisted around to look at her, his blue eyes
narrowing just a little:
"What do you mean? Why not?"
"Because you're leaving Sunday. It's time for-for
candor." She stared at her hands. "I have some filings
I need to say to you."
A kind of dizziness swept over her; a feeling of
racing toward a waterfall. Reckless or not, she
must go ahead-
While you can.
"Tell me about Lexington," she said. "I think you
want to. And you might feel better. Then I'll
talk."
He hesitated, though not for long. She'd gauged his
need correctly:
"Maybe I should. Christ knows it hurts keeping
ft penned inside all the time-was
As they sat beside the canal in the dusk, he began
to speak of Jephtha Kent
398The Amateur Cavalier
He began by telling her the essentials:
His father's religious objections to slavery, which led
to the loss of the itinerancy; his mother's growing consternation,
then mounting wrath. Jephtha Kent, Gideon said,
particularly loathed his wife's father, one of the few
farmers around Lexington who kept a substantial
number of slaves and-Gideon didn't gloss the
truth- made no secret of treating them harshly:
"It was a terrible situation from the beginning. I've
always thought Mama might not have turned against Papa
if he hadn't despised Captain Tunworth so
much. Though I don't think Papa realized it, some
of the people in Lexington actually approved of his stand.
The Shenandoah isn't the same sort of slave
territory as the Tidewater. But Papa made the
mistake of picking my grandfather as a special
target. Mama ordered him out of the house. She's
said since that she regrets doing it, but in view of that
damn disgusting scene in Washington, she shouldn't.
Papa stayed in Lexington a while. Found a
menial job at the Institute. I suspect he
liked being a sort of-living conscience for the town."
"An accusing conscience."
"Yes. As I said, only one person befriended
him publicly. Colonel Tom Fool
Jackson. Then Papa got involved with the
Underground Railroad. He helped one of
Captain Tunworth's nigra wenches escape, and
fled to the North to live with his father's cousin. Mrs.
Kent-I've mentioned her, haven't I?"
"The wealthy woman. Yes. Go on."
"She started the paper Papa works for now. She
piled up a lot of money out West, too," He
described the California gold properties and
revealed something new
The Titans399
about them-he and his brothers would receive the income when
Jephtha Kent died.
"Back in Lexington, Mama also charged Papa with
defrauding us by putting control of the mines in Mrs.
Kent's hands. She's spoken of regretting that,
too. But Edward still thinks my father would like to see
Matt and Jeremiah and me disinherited."
"Would he disinherit you?"
"I never believed so, until that night in the
hotel. Papa actually said Edward was scheming
to kill him so he could control the money. What
rubbish! If hell say that, he's capable of
anything. There were years after Papa was gone when I
wished he were with us. I was an idiot.
He's a maniac. I never want to set eyes on
him again."
Gideon's voice shook. So did his hands. He
laced his fingers together to control the tremors.
Margaret stroked his arm.
She felt tremors there, too. She'd never
realized how much the tangled relationship with his father
tormented him.
All at once Gideon mourn set "Enough from
me. That's the end of the story."
He jumped up. "Come on. I'm starved. While
we eat, maybe you'll explain how you got me
to blab so much. I've never told half of that
to anyone else." He touched her hair as she rose
from the rock. "You also mentioned you had something to say-was
A gangling Texan no older than Gideon
came strolling along the path, a young belle in
rustling crinolines on each arm. The Texas boy
gave Gideon a grave nod of greeting-soldier
to soldier-and passed on.
"I don't want to wait for supper," she said.
"I've got to speak now. You'll think I'm
presumptuous, probably. Foolish. But-was
"Nothing you say could be foolish, Margaret" He
bent nearer, pink-faced. "Nothing."
400The Amateur Cavalier
MI don't want you to go."
"Sunday?"
"Yes."
He reacted with disbelief, not anger:
"Well, that's not exactly a secret" He
laughed. "I guess once in a while, you might
say something foolish-was
"Gideon-was Her hand constricted on his arm. "You
don't know what it'll be like! You think it'll be
wonderful-was
"You're damn right. It'll be a privilege and a
pleasure to meet up with some Yanks."
"It'll be a disaster! The South's not equipped
to fight a war. You've seen our troops. Boys.
Amateurs."
"Now just a damn minute-I"
"I'm sorry, it's true."
"Amateur or not, we'll have the Yanks whipped in
ninety days."
"Don't you think they're saying the same thing in
Washington? The difference is, Lincoln's got
hundreds of thousands of men to conscript if he
wants to-was Her voice grew shriller. "How can
you be so blind to the truth? Look at your own
captain. A yard goods merchant!"
"With military experience."
"Years ago!"
"We're going to have a hell of a fine commander at
Harper's Ferry. A Virginian from Patrick
County. James Ewell Brown Stuart. Jeb,
they call him. He doesn't lack experience.
He resigned from a captaincy in the First
Cavalry-one of the best units in the Federal army.
He brought his family home from the West and went
straight to Lee-was
They were walking again, Gideon more animated; trying
to use enthusiasm to overcome her hostility:
"Lee thinks highly of him. Stuart happened to be
on leave in Washington in "59. He went with
Lee to catch
The Titansbledja
old Ossawatomie Brown. Stuart's been in
Arkansas, the Kansas territory-he's fought the
meanest Indians on the Plains, the Cheyenne-they
say he's a hell of a scrapper. I'm told he
sings a lot, too. I'd follow him to perdition if
he's a singer. He's at Harper's Ferry right
now, starting to whip the state cavalry into shape-
Margaret."
"What?"
"Don't look so blasted glum! Your theory about
amateurs is all wrong. I couldn't ask for a
better commander than Stuart Why, the top men in the
Federal service were all attached to the First or
Second cavalry regiments. Joe Johnston was
lieutenant colonel in the First, Bob Lee in the
Second under Albert Sidney Johnston.
Hardee and George Thomas and Hood and that
Union dandy, McClellan-the list's a quarter
mile long! And we've got the pick of the lot!"
She shook her head. "You just won't-was
"Stuart's young. Twenty-eight or so. But he's
smart A West Pointer."
"Gideon!"
Her ferocity checked his rush of words.
"I don't care how clever he is-or how well
he's been trained. He can still get you killed"
"Why, yes," Gideon answered calmly. "But
I accepted that risk."
"I don't accept it I couldn't stand it!
Gideon, I-I love you."
Stunned silence.
Awed, he whispered, "Glory be to God." A
shout: "Hallelujah, I've been
wanting to say the same thing, but I was too damn
scared."
Laughing and crying at the same time, she flung herself
against him, clasping him tight She experienced a
soaring moment of release and joy:
"I don't care if every righteous lady in Richmond
402The Amateur Cavalier
calls me a tart for coming right out with it-was She drew
back. "I love you and I won't see you hurt."
"Glory be to God," he repeated-and let out a
whoop that turned heads in the blue shadows further
down the towpath.
He grabbed her waist, hugging her so tightly her
breasts hurt, a lovely pain. He scooped her
up and whirled her. She gasped as he set her on
the ground, looked at her tenderly a moment, then
kissed her.
She put her arms around his neck, without shame.
Pressed against him, she could feel the hardness of his
wanting. It frightened and thrilled her.
She let her lips open just a little. For one abandoned
moment, she caressed his tongue with hers, praying he
wouldn't think her a harlot-
His mouth tasted of tangy clove. He must have been
chewing one to freshen his breath on the walk from
the Fair Grounds. How funny and sad and
unbearably sweet-
They broke apart. She fussed with her bonnet
to hide her embarrassment over the way she'd
embraced him; the way she'd wanted more of him than
was proper-
She had to discover his reaction:
"I expect I've acted like a fast woman-was
"Let anybody say that and I'll bust his eye!"
He squeezed her hand. "Lord, Margaret! All the
way over here, I kept wondering if I could work
up nerve by Sunday to tell you how I felt I
knew I couldn't work up nerve tonight-was
His mood changed again; he was no longer the
exuberant soldier bragging about his new commanding
officer, but boyish; uncertain. He chafed her hands
with almost comical haste:
"We really should talk."
Gravely: "Yes."
"I mean about your-doing me the honor of- becoming my
wife as soon as the fighting's done."
The Titansbledjc
She thought she might faint. But she didn't-because of
one word. One detestable word.
Fighting.
"I would, Gideon-was
"Oh, my Godl" he bellowed, doing a foolish
little jig on the path. He lunged for her waist
to give her another whM.
"comexcept-was She fended him off. Startled, he
withdrew his hands.
"Except what?"
She had to say it:
"I don't want to promise myself to a man who
may not come home to me."
"Why, honey, I'll be back from Harper's Ferry
in no time. We-was
"Gideon, listen. You're as crazy as that father of
yours if you think you're going on a holiday."
To blunt her savagery, he tried to tease:
"It will be a holiday, because you'll be waiting for-was
"Gideon, if you care for me-was
"I do! IV-EVERY told you!"
"Then you must pay attention to what I'm saying. I
saw one man go off just like you. A man I loved-was
Jealously: "Whatman?"
"My father."
"I didn't know anything about-I mean, you never
mentioned-was Chagrined, he rubbed his cheek. "I thought
he must be dead."
"No. He lives with Aunt Eliza and me."
She was desperate now. Vulnerable because she'd
revealed how she felt. He wouldn't leave
Captain Ma- comb's troop. But at least she
might save his life by opening his eyes to the reality of
what was waiting in some far, unseen place where the
gay uniforms would grow stained with dirt and gore-
"He went to war too," she said. "The Mexican
war.
404The Amateur Cavalier
He came home, but it might have been better if
he hadn't-was
High up on Gamble's Hill, the tops of the
tallest maples burned in the setting sun. A
cardinal flew from a branch; caught'the sunlight;
red as blood.
The bird dipped, lost among the shadows of the leaves
stirring in the May wind.
She knew the extent of the risk she was contemplating.
But there was no other way to open his eyes. She took
his hand:
"I don't want to eat supper."
"But I thought we'd talk about-was
"No," she said, tugging him along the path. He
reached down to grab the shako that had fallen
unnoticed. It took all the courage she
possessed to say the rest:
"I Want you to come out to where we live In Rock-
ett's. I want you to see my father."
CHAPTER I'll
The Tigers
MARGARET LEFT GIDEON in front of the
Spots wood:
"You have a bite to eat I'm not the least bit
hungry. I'll go along to the shop and leave a
note for Aunt Eliza. She worries about me
traveling home alone."
Gideon knew he should insist on accompanying her.
Even though the distance was short, the walks were still
packed with soldiers, as well as with
representatives of less respectable
professions who emerged after dark. But his stomach was
growling.
"All right. I'll meet you here in ten minutes."
Besides food, he wanted a stiff drink and a little time
to himself.
He stayed outside the Spotswood until she
disappeared in the crowds eddying back and forth in the glow
of the gas lamps. As he turned to go into the hotel,
a ragged black boy stopped him.
Grinning, the boy informed him that the finest fleshy
entertainments in Richmond could be obtained at a
certain address in Ram Cat Alley.
"Son, I've got the best girl in the whole
damn town. Skedaddle!"
He entered the immaculate, marble-floored lobby,
passing beneath ornate gas fixtures of polished
brass. He was only marginally aware of a
white-coated Negro clanging out three strokes
on the dinner gong.
He was confused by his own state of mind. He should

406The Tigers
have been elated. To an extent he was. At last,
he'd managed to articulate the feelings for
Margaret that shyness and inexperience had kept locked
inside him since not long after their first meeting.
But the relationship was marred by her stubborn resistance
to the war, and his role in it. The resistance had
cropped up before. Only tonight had he gotten a due
as to its cause.
That Margaret's father was living had come as a total
surprise. He knew she'd been born in
Kentucky; had moved'from a failing farm to live
with her aunt more than ten years ago. But
he'd always imagined she was an orphan.
The prospect of meeting her father out in
Roclcett's put him on edge. Margaret
evidently hoped me encounter would reinforce her
views about fighting. He loved her, but she couldn't
change his mind about certain things. The trip
to Rocketf s would probably do nothing but cause
trouble.
He shouldered into the noisy, smoky saloon bar.
The place was packed with men in civilian dress and
uniforms of every description. One man's face
bore a slight resemblance to his father's.
He still saw Jephtha Kent in nightmares, his
eyes full of pain and bewilderment as he waited for the
gutta- percha cane to slash down. Gideon
hadn't been wholly truthful with Margaret on one
point No matter how Jephtha had slandered Fan
Lamont, he was still the man who'd given life
to his sons. It was impossible for Gideon to hate
him without guilt and an occasional twinge of sorrow.
Because of his height and obvious strength, he had little
trouble forcing his way up to the polished bar. He
squeezed in beside a fast-talking man in a cream-
colored frock coat The man was promising a
couple of wide-eyed Georgia captains
that the stakes were modest at a certain faro bank to which
he could lead them. The
The Titansbledjg
captains would emerge big winners. They took the
lure and followed the gambler out of the bar.
The barkeep approached. "Eat or drink?"
"Both. Haven't got much time, though. Throw a
few slabs of that ham on white bread." The
bartender pro.ceeded
to put the sandwich together, then slid the platej
across the mahogany.
"What's your pleasure for drinking?"
"Applejack."
Gideon fished out a Richmond Corporation
note. The bartender reached down. Gideon leaned
over and caught his arm.
"I don't mean the hard cider you sell to youngsters
who can't tell the difference."
The barkeep noted Gideon's size and the unblinking
severity of his blue eyes. He admitted his
guilt with a grin:
"Yes, sir. You ain't exactly a graybeard
yourself."
"But I've been in Richmond long enough to know about
gouging. As long as you're going to charge me
for it, I want the real goods."
"Coming up."
Shortly, Gideon had a glass of the biting
liquid from the unfrozen heart of a hard-cider
barrel set out to ice over the winter. The
applejack refreshed him after several mouthfuls of
coarse bread and salty country ham.
His belly grew comfortably warm. But his
apprehension lingered. Margaret's father had to be the one
responsible for her hatred of the war. He knew she
wasn't entirely in disagreement with the principles for
which the South was fighting.
"comdon't give a hang what the Ape says.
Hell wind up interfering with the slave trade, mark
my word. All the radicals are pushing him."
The overheard remark came from one of three
prosperously dressed men immediately to his left. The
408The Tigers
speaker opened the pages of a paper whose masthead
Gideon recognized at once. The New York
Union.
He wasn't surprised to see it Dozens of
Northern papers found their way to Richmond.
Captain Macomb said General Lee had an
aide who did nothing but read the
Tribune, the Times, the Union and the sheets
published in Washington City. The newspapers
generously reported every shift of Federal policy and
every major troop movement-numbers of men, their
armament, everything.
They're doing it already," the man with the paper went on.
He quoted in a cynical tone:
"coms let me tell the gentlemen of the South that although
the abolition of slavery is not an object of the
war-was
Guffaws.
"comthey mayt in their mpdness and folly and treason-was
Oaths from both listeners.
"commake the abolition of slavery one of the results
of this war."
One of the men snorted. "What Republican
fuckhead said that?"
"Senator Henry Lane of Indiana."
"When our boys meet up with the Yanks, they'll show
them who's going to abolish what The only thing
abolished will be the Ape's army!"
The man beside Gideon nudged him, as if for
endorsement Gideon smiled and raised his glass and
nodded.
The trio rendered a few opinions on the
parentage and sexual habits of Senator Lane
and those who'd printed his statement Gideon shoved his
glass across the bar. "Another one." What if the
gentlemen knew they were standing beside someone with ties to that
very newspaper? He supposed there'd never been such
a strange war in all of human history.
The Titansbledji
His next drink reminded him of something else.
Alcohol comor the probable absence of same up at
Harper's Ferry. He'd been informed James E.
B. Stuart was a devout Episcopalian and a
total abstainer. He'd heard too many good things
about Stuart to be much concerned about his piety. But
others might complain.
He hoped to do well when Stuart led the cavalry
into battle. He wanted to offer his mother some reason
to be proud of him. He knew he'd been a
disappointment to her so far. He was wholly uninterested
in book learning. His term at Washington
College had been a catastrophe. About the only
things he honestly enjoyed were hunting, fishing or
galloping the roads and meadows around Lexington on
one of Grandpa Virgil's horses.
That was one reason he thanked the Almighty the war
had come. He'd finally found something to which he
could give himself with unstinting enthusiasm. If only
Margaret could be proud of him, too-
Dammit, he'd make her proud!
He checked the back-bar clock. He still had a
couple of minutes. He asked for a third
applejack to brace himself for what could be a pretty
grim evening.
More opinions and predictions kept spouting from
groups waiting for an opening at the bar:
"comold Telegraph Morse is sympathetic-was
"Hell, he's a Yankl"
"But he stands with the South. He thinks we were foolish
to fire on Sumter, though. Says it's made it
impossible for Northerners who want peace to exert
any influence in Washington-was
"comwant a job, Simeon? There's still a card in the
Enquirer. The Louisiana State Military
Academy's hunting for a superintendent Some
Northerner named Sherman resigned the post-was
"comthe paper says the prize in the Royal Havana
Lottery's up to half a million dollars-was
410The Tigers
"comno more Federal mail service in the Confederacy
come the end of the month-was
"Godamighty! My poor mother's ailing in
Wisconsin. How'll I find out whether she's
recovered?"
"comthe Little Giant's down with the typhoid out in
Illinois-was
"Well, I hope "he pulls out of it.
Yankee Democrat or not, he was a friend of ours
for a long, long time. How old is he?"
"Forty-eight, forty-nine-but I saw him up in
Washington in March and he looked sixty. Sick.
Pasty. A worn-out bulldog."
"If any man could have saved this country, he-was
"It isn't this country, Neville. It's two
countries now. Besides, it's too late. He's
dying."
Conversation to his right caught his attention. He
couldn't see the man immediately next to him. The fellow
had his back turned. But over the man's shoulder,
he spied a small, nervous chap whose frock coat
bore stains on the lapels and whose hair looked as
if it hadn't met up with a comb in weeks. The man
was squinting at his companion as he said:
"You can take everything Jeff Davis says and
discount it about fifty percent. I mean all that
garbage about how we'll mince the Yanks in ninety
days because our boys are going to war with fire
in their bellies."
The man beside Gideon grumbled, "Whose side are you
on, Josiah?"
"That's a stupid question. I'm being realistic. All
that fire in the belly talk isn't worth a pig's
ass if we haven't got decent factories or
railroads."
"The crop surpluses will finance those."
"Oh, will they? We sure as hell can't sell
cotton up North any longer. Davis won't
sell it to Europe either. And may I remind you which
ships used to carry our cotton and tobacco and
sugar? Ships owned by Yankees! Think they're
going to come steaming up the James
The Titansbledaa
to do business as usual? I tell you Davis is
totally wrong! Fire in the belly's no good without
money"
For emphasis, the ferret-faced man slammed his
shot glass on the bar. He lowered his voice, but
Gideon could still hear:
"And if the government can't raise enough-which it
can't-then the private citizen has to help. Using
any means available, fair or foul."
"Hell, there's nothing you can do about it"
"No? You'd be surprised if you knew-was
Abruptly he noticed Gideon listening. He
signaled his friend with a glance. The two huddled closer
together, elbows on the bar. Gideon missed the rest
of the conversation; no tragedy. Obviously the South
had partisans of all kinds. But he didn't like the
attitude of that pale little weasel doing most of the
talking.
A glance at the clock made him start. Fifteen
minutes had gone by. He drained his drink and
rushed for the
lobby. Outside the hotel, he jerked up short.
Turned to the left, then the right. His head felt
light from the three fast applejacks.
He should have been able to spot the golden dress
easily. The crowds had thinned a little now that it was
fully dark. The more timid had retired to their
homes, leaving the walks to the soldiers, the sharps,
the black urchins pimping for the whore's cribs.
He didn't see Margaret anywhere.
Worried, he began to walk quickly toward the dress
shop.
He passed the gilt-leafed doors of a gambling
palace. Inside, dim figures moved in a
sulphurous light He walked faster. His
head was clearing. The night air dried the sweat on
his cheeks and palms.
412The Tigers
He reached the corner. A horse-drawn omnibus
came clattering along Ninth from one of the depots.
He ran around behind it, his left boot flattening a
turd. He ignored the stink as he scanned the
brick walk down by La Mode.
The area was dim because the shop stood midway between two
gas lamps. He thought he spied men clustered around
the shop's entrance, though. Two men. No, three-
A few more long strides and he identified the men's
clothing. Zouave uniforms. The man nearest him had
his right hand against the building. He was talking to his
companions-or someone else.
Gideon began to run. Those were New Orleans
Tiger Zouaves. The worst riffraff on the
streets-
A pedestrian tried to push by the men. One shoved
back. Gideon heard a voice ask the
intimidated pedestrian for help.
The voice was Margaret's.
He ran faster. His shako fell off. He was dead
sober. His boots hammered the bricks as he
passed through the glow of one of the gaslights.
The Zouaves saw him coming.
"Watch it, Hall," one said.
Gideon dashed around the white-faced pedestrian
who'd been pushed off the walk. The man addressed
as Hall stepped away from the building. Only
half a dozen store fronts separated Gideon
from the trio now. He saw Margaret trapped among
them, the very instant he realized he had no weapon.
The Zouave named Hall peered at him. The man's
face was blotched with warts. He slipped his hand under
his vest
Taking advantage of the diversion, Margaret tried
to dash away. Another Zouave caught her;
slapped her face; laughed:
The Titansbledac
"Hold on, Miss Pretty-tits. We ain't
done with you yet"
Gideon stopped under the gaslight nearest the shop.
He was aware of a couple of people watching across Main
Street A gambler lounged outside his establishment
down at the end of the block. He'd get no
assistance from either source, he suspected. Nor
did he see any Blind Pigs-the guards assigned
to patrol Capitol Square; lately they'd
expanded their rounds to include major
thoroughfares. But a Blind Pig wouldn't be much help
either. All were elderly; some, tottering veterans of
1812.
So it was up to him. He started forward again.
Margaret cried out:
"Stay back, Gideon! They're all armed-was
"Get away from her!" he shouted.
"Why, looka this!" the wart-chinned Hall
snickered, weaving a step in his direction. "A
sojer boy. Dressed up damn near as fancy as
the girl!"
"Gideon, be careful!" Margaret was still struggling.
But she couldn't free herself from her captor.
"Shit, he ain't gonna interfere," Hall
grinned. Even at a distance, Gideon smelled the
rum on the man. "If he tries-was
Hall's hand slid from under his vest
"comwe'll just chop his balls off."
Margaret lunged again. The second Zouave caught
the point of her chin, shoved her head against the shop's
wall. Gideon heard the thump. Red-faced, he
charged straight at Hall. The Zouave stood
spraddle-legged, his knife pointed at Gideon's
belly.
414The Tigers
There was anger in Gideon Kent; the
uncontrollable anger of which his mother often spoke with
weary concern. He launched himself into a long leap.
Hall yelled: "Crazy son of a bitch-to " He
jumped back, stumbling into his friends as Gideon
caught his knife arm and bent it at the wrist
Bone popped. Hall shrieked.
Gideon didn't get a firm footing as he
landed. He fell on top of Hall. The Zouave
dropped the knife.
Kneeling on Hall's chest, Gideon seized his
ears, raised his head, bashed it down on the
bricks. Then again-
Hall howled on the first crunch; fainted on the
second. There was commotion inside the shop. Lamps
bobbing. Two or three young women hurrying through the
darkened front section-
Gideon leaped up, still shaken from the fall on top
of the wart-faced Zouave. He wiped sweat from his
forehead, aware of the other two moving at him. They
fumbled for concealed weapons.
The shop door opened. Three girls screamed and
jabbered. Margaret got free, darting toward him.
The second Zouave kicked her. She stumbled.
He yanked her out of the way, mouthing filthy
words as he lunged at Gideon, his right arm
extended at shoulder level In his fist, a knife.
Gideon twisted sideways to narrow the target The
knife raked the left side of his face. He
felt pain; the warmth and wetness of blood. He
rammed a fist into the Zouave's stomach.
The man doubled, then tried to grapple Gideon
around the waist The dragging weight threw him off
balance- left his face exposed again as metal
came streaking out
The Titansbledae
of the shadows. Sharp-edged knuckle-dusters on the hand
of the third Zouave-
The knuckle-dusters damn near tore his head off.
He staggered. Still on his knees, the second
Zouave gut- punched him twice. The punches were
clumsy but powerful. Gideon reeled into the street,
landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him.
Blinking, he rolled over. Tried to push up. His
arms seemed to be made of jelly. A hack came
flying around the corner of Ninth, thundering toward the
spot where Gideon floundered. Margaret screamed.
A chaos of overlapping sounds then. The grinding
wheels. The rattling hoofs. The oath of the driver
dragging on his reins and booting his brake.
The hack veered. Simultaneously, the second
Zouave jumped on Gideon's back.
Gideon's jaw slammed the dirt. Like a gored
animal, he bellowed and heaved upward. The
Zouave tumbled off. Landed under the hoofs of the rearing
hack horse-
Gideon crawled the other way; stumbled up. The
hack driver whipped greater-than his terrified
animal. No use. Fore- hooves slashed down,
striking the Zouave's face.
The maddened horse kicked and stamped until his
driver got him under control. Clutching his face with
both hands, the Zouave gained his feet. He lurched
straight up the middle of Main. Blood streamed
between his fingers. He almost blundered into another hotel
omnibus. The passengers yelled and pointed The
Zouave staggered on, moaning.
Head near to bursting with pain, the showy dolman almost
torn in half, Gideon shambled back to the brick
walk. The Zouave with the knuckle-dusters was still
crouched there. He started backing away. Gideon
ran at him.
"Don't!" .margaret exclaimed. He barely
heard. Panting, he snagged the Zouave's arm and
hurled him against the building.
416The Tigers
A small crowd was collecting. People off the
omnibus; the hack driver; the gambler from the
corner. He puffed a cheroot and watched Gideon
with hard, admiring eyes.
Gideon began to punch the Zouave. The man
begged; put up the hand with the bloodied
knuckle-dusters. Gideon knocked it down,
drove a fist into his face, then rammed his knee
in the man's groin.
Blood squirted from the Zouave's nose. His
eyes rolled up in his head. When he started
to slide down the wall, Gideon held him with one
hand and battered his face with the other.
Hit him once.
Twice.
Three times-
Margaret tore at his arm: "Let go of him,
Gideon!"
"Here, I'll take charge!" A wheezy voice.
Gideon glimpsed the white-stubbled cheeks of a
Blind Pig. Gaslight winked on the metal letters
on the old fellow's cap. P. G. Pig without
an i. Blind Pig-
The Public Guard tried to thrust an
antiqauted musket between Gideon and the Zouave.
The weapon was nearly knocked from his hands when
Gideon hit the Zouave again.
"I say, sir, let me take charge!" the
elderly man protested. "Young
ladies-someone-help me!"
More hands grabbed Gideon. He had his right arm
drawn back for another punch. His knuckles
bled. All at once, he felt Margaret's
nails bite through his sleeve again:
"Yotfve done enough?"'
The words seemed to echo and re-echo. The Zouave
collapsed. Gideon was shaking. Growing
uncontrollably dizzy-
He shot out his free hand; propped himself against the
front of the shop. With an arthritic groan, the Blind
Pig knelt to examine the man Gideon had
beaten.
The Titansbledag
"Done for. Be in the hospital a week. Ought
to send these Louisiana thugs straight home. We
don't need their kind."
People swarmed around Gideon, slapping his back,
congratulating him. It was safe now that the battle was
over.
He realized how close he'd come to being killed.
While he was fighting, the thought had never entered his
mind. He shook his head. Looked for Margaret
She'd understand.
Suddenly a lamp held by-one of the girls
illuminated Margaret's face. He couldn't
believe what he saw.
His knees gave out. He started to fall. The Blind
Pig made a feeble attempt to catch him;
failed. Gideon tumbled sideways. The left
side of his face-the knifed, bleeding side-smeared
against the skirt of Margaret's gown before he hit the
walk and sprawled.
The last thing he remembered was Margaret's
expression. She looked at the swath of blood on
her skirt, then down at him. Even with his eyes
watering and things growing grotesquely distorted, he
recognized the meaning of the look.
There was no pride on her lamplit face. Only
anger.
IV
i
Voices. Margaret's first, edged with irritation:"
"Where did you get that, Willa?"
"Oh, we just keep it hid around here. Do
we have to say where?"
"You know how Aunt Eliza feels about liquor.
If she realized you had a bottle cached in the
shop-was
Another girl broke in: "We're the ones working
half the night to finish the uniforms. Shouldn't we have
a little something to make the time go faster?"
418The Tigers
"And the seams come out crooked?" Margaret snapped
back.
He heard grumbles. The first girl spoke again:
"You sound in a fearful temper."
"Do you blame me?"
"Well," Willa sniffed, "We ain't being" of
any help standing around discussin' temperance. This gin
will clean up his knuckles and that gash."
Though he hadn't opened his eyes, sensation was
returning to Gideon's body. He was seated in a
chair, his legs stretched out. He ached like the
devil. The left side of his face felt warmer
than the right. A lamp close by?
His nose itched. That told him where he was. The
back room of La Mode Shoppe. He'd been
there before, and he'd sneezed violently every time because of
all the thread and lint lying loose.
He probed his lower lip with his tongue. Found a
small, clotted cut. Something wet and
sweet-smelling pressed his left cheek. His eyes
popped open:
"Jesus Christl That hurts!"
"You sit still, Mr. Kent I need to swab out the
cut. Marcy, hand me a piece of linen."
The girl hovering behind one of the shop's I. M.
Singer automatic sewing machines jumped to find the
cloth for Willa, who knelt at his side. The
reek of the gin and the heat of the lamp started his stomach
churning. Vomit rose in his throat.
Finally Willa finished cleaning his face and his raw
knuckles. She handed him a fresh, folded square
of linen:
"Just hold that to your cheek and I think the bleeding will
stop."
"Thank you, ladies," Gideon breathed. He
felt stiff, but he'd live. He peered into the
shadows beyond the Singers and the cutting table. He couldn't
locate Margaret. She must be standing behind him.
The Titansbledai
Her voice confirmed it: "You should have let me tend
to him, Willa."
Willa shrugged. "Would of, except you were
nearly as unstrung as he was."
"That's impertinent."
Willa sighed. "Guess so." She didn't
apologize.
"You should rest, too," another girl said to Margaret
"Those Tigers treated you pretty rough."
"Mean bastards," said a third.
Gideon managed a grin. "Nothing a Virginian
couldn't handle."
The attempt at levity had precisely the wrong
result Margaret exhaled loudly. He tried
to crane his head around while still holding the linen to his
cheek:
"Where the devil have you got to, Margaret?"
"Here."
She walked to where he could see her. The blood on
her gold skirt had turned brown. She looked as
if she were ready to cry.
"You all right?" he asked.
"Fine. Perfectly-fine."
"You don't sound so fine."
"You were a fool to throw yourself at those bullies!"
"A fool?" He sat up straighter, causing an
unexpected and painful throb along his spine.
"What the hel-what the devil was I
supposed to do? Stand by and give "em permission
to rape you right in public?" A girl tittered.
"They acted like they'd seen you before."
"This afternoon. Two of them accosted me on the street.
After I left you at the hotel, I noticed them
when I was turning into the shop. They were down at the end
of the block. And waiting at the door when I came
out."
"Two of the Blind Pigs hauled 'em to the lockup,"
one of the girls said.
"Wonderful," Margaret said.
Gideon clucked his tongue. "I don't know why
you're
420The Tigers
so blasted peevish. You were in a bad scrape.
Someone had to get you out!"
"You could have waited for help-was she began.
"What help? Ladies and little boys on the hotel
omnibus? Old fossils with rusty muskets?
Jesus!" He shook his head. "I don't understand
this."
"Oh, you don't?" Fists clenched, she leaned
down. "You attacked those three men without a weapon.
You could have been killed. You were crazy to do it!"
A gasp of astonishment from Willa.
Glances of surprise, then derision from the other two
girls. Margaret was aware of the reaction.
Nervously, she brushed back a curl straggling in
front of her ear. When she spoke again, he sensed
she was addressing the girls as well:
"Please don't think I'm ungrateful-was
"Why, no! How would I possibly get that
idea?"
"Don't be snide. You were too rash. That temper
of yours-was
Willa thumped the gin bottle on the cutting table.
"Lord. I can't stand any more. Margaret Marble, you can
fire me for sayin" so, but you oughta be ashamed.
Mr. Kent pulls you out of a ferocious muss, and
instead of thankin' him, you're jabbin' him about-was
"I do thank him!" Margaret blazed. "But it's
no business of yours."
"Sure is, long as he's being badgered. Riles
me something fierce. Mr. Kent did what any
decent young man would have done-was
The others seconded her loudly. Close to tears,
Margaret spun away from them:
"God! Nobody has any sense any more!
Nobody!"
She ran to the front of the shop.
Gideon rose, pulled the linen from his cheek and
winced. He dabbed the linen on a spot of blood
oozing from a scraped knuckle.
"I'll try to straighten this out, Miss Willa.
Thanks for your help."
The Titansbledba
"Least I could do. I'd be proud to have a cavalry
soldier lookin' after me."
"Well. Margaret is too. Those Mississippi
river rats upset her, that's all."
The girls weren't convinced and neither was he. He was
angrv. and more than a little insulted by her behavior
Apparentlv she objected to his attack on the
Tiger Zouaves for the same reason she objected
to his eagerness to ride off to Harper's Ferry. And
even though she'd given him a hint of the reason for her
feelings, understanding those feelings wasn't the same as
sympathizing.
How to deal with her? How to convince her she was wrong?
Especially now, when men had no choice but to defend
their homes-and, in the case of scum like the
Tigers-their women?
Damned if he knew the answer.
One thing was plain, though. He'd have to find it soon.
All of a sudden he and the girl he cared for
had confronted a wall that divided them just as surely
as long-standing animosities divided the North and
South.
In a tired voice, he said, "I'll go talk
to her. Maybe she's settled down. I expect you
ladies want to go back to work-was
"Don't want to," Willa said. "Got to."
She shooed the other girls like a mother hen: "Marcy,
hide the gin. Miss Eliza will be back from church
before long. Heloise, take those bloody linens out
to the scrap bin. Bury "em-way down in the
bottom."
Gideon paused at the curtained doorway.
"I'll be seeing Margaret home-was
Willa nodded absently. "She wrote a note for
Miss Eliza." The girl pulled her stool up
to the cutting table, gave him a pitying look and sat
down.
In the darkened front of the store, Margaret stood still
as a statue. He touched her arm:
"We can go."
422The Tigers
She spun around. "Gideon, you misunderstood
everything I tried to say back there!"
"No, I didn't. I just didn't care
for it much. Come on, let's not squabble."
"But you rush into danger without thinking about-was
"Enough, Margaret. I did what any man would do.
Now shall I see you home or not?"
There was an instant when he wished she'd say no.
With his face throbbing and his body hurting, he was in
bad spirits. He had a premonition the trip
to Rockett's might only worsen their differences-
He resolved not to let it happen. He loved her
too much to see everything spoiled.
It's up to me to change her mind.
In reply to his question, she said, "Yes, I do
want you to take me home. It's more important
than ever that you meet my father."
Outside, he drew a deep breath of the night
air. Scratched his nose and sneezed.
"Could we walk back to Ninth first? I lost my
hat someplace."
"Of course. I wouldn't want you to look anything
less than splendid when you go riding off to-was
She cut off the sentence; caught his hand:
"Forgive me. I keep saying things I shouldn't."
He squeezed her fingers. "Forgiven."
But he wasn't reassured. Her hand felt
frigid.
He managed to locate the shako, dusty but
otherwise undamaged. Under a gas lamp, she
watched him settle it on his head and stretch the
strap beneath his chin. Her eyes were sad.
Hand in hand but awkwardly silent, they went to catch
the horsecar.
CHAPTER IV
Lost Love
IRON GRINDING AGAINST IRON, the horsecar
rolled through the May dark. The car was pulled by a
swaybacked nag in blinders. The animaPs hoofs
struck the street with a slow clopping rhythm. As the
car climbed a slight grade, an oil lantern
hooked to the ceiling shifted the shadows of the
passengers.
Only three people were aboard besides Gideon and
Margaret. Two were bearded, tipsy fellows with
huge bellies and the look of dock workers. The
third, seated in the rear, was a gaunt young woman in
a flamboyant scarlet pelisse. She either lived
in Rockett's or was searching for an evening's
employment.
The car windows were lowered to admit the mild night
air. But the interior still smelled stale. The
atmosphere wasn't improved when one of the
men passed wind.
The young woman laughed. In a moment she moved to the
front of the car and struck up a conversation. The three
began whispering. Gideon heard what he thought was
haggling over prices.
Since the start of the ride, Margaret had been
sitting with her hands clasped in her lap and her eyes
straight ahead. Several times she seemed on the
verge of speaking but held back.
Gideon felt much better. Physically. His
mood was growing steadily worse. That was the subject
Margaret finally used to end the silence:

424Lost Love
"I can tell you're furious with me."
He let out a long sigh. At least the tension was
broken. He lied to her:
"I'm more mixed up than anything else. You acted
like I committed a sin going after those Tigers."
"You still think I'm ungrateful." She reached for his
hand. "Honestly, I'm not. But to throw yourself at
three armed and vicious men-was
"Why must we keen going over it, Margaret? I
did what was necessary! What happened was my fault.
K I hadn't let my belly get the
best of my brains I'd have walked you back to the
shop."
The two men and the woman in red were talking
boisterously now. There was a great deal of patting and
pinching going on at the front of the car. Margaret
shook her head:
"Necessary. I suppose that's what my father told my
mother when he joined up for the Mexican War." Her
gaze drifted out the window to a saloon where piano
music jangled. "You don't know how much war has
cost me. Mama fell ill while Papa was serving
with the Kentucky Mounted Volunteers. She died
almost a week to the day after he fought at Buena
Vista."
"That was a big battle."
"Big and ghastly. It would have been better if he'd
died there."
"You said something like that before. Jesus, Margaret comx's
cruel."
"You won't think so when you see him."
Her eyes moved from the saloon to passing store
fronts, all dark. The white-whiskered driver
clanged the bell and shouted at a pair of boys who
raced across the track. A second later, half a
dozen loud pops- firecrackers-started the
horse whinnying and balking.
The driver swore; lashed the reins over the nag's
back. The car rolled forward again.
In a solemn voice, Margaret went on,
"Papa came
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home in the spring of "47. We moved back into the
home place-I stayed with some neighbors after
Mama was buried. Papa couldn't work the farm.
Women who lived close by brought food from time to time.
But it wasn't enough. So Papa hired a
twelve-year-old boy to come over once a day and
kill one of the rabbits,"
"Did you raise them?"
"Yes. They were so pretty-soft and white. We had
dozens of cages. Mama built most of them before
she died. I gave all the rabbits names. That
made killing them harder than ever. I bawled every time
the neighbor boy showed up. Papa wouldn't pay
any attention. He'd just say, Ephraim, you go out
and bring us Joseph. Bring us Samantha-I'm not
even sure those were the names. But I remember
screaming when Ephraim went out to the hutches. I'd
wait for the sound. Little as I was, I remember the
sound to this day."
She was pale.
He asked, "What sound?"
"The sound when Ephraim broke the rabbit's head
with a stone. Papa said that way was quicker and more merciful.
For-for a while I wouldn't eat any of the rabbit
meat-was Tears filled her eyes. "You see what it
cost? My mother's life. The animals. Papa-was
"But he's alive!"
"Not really."
The overhead lamp swayed, flinging her shadow behind her
shoulder. Gideon struggled for the proper words:
"Well--your feelings make a little more sense now.
Trouble is, sometimes people have to fight for what they
believe."
"Christ didn't teach that. I don't accept that."
"What are you going to do, then? Just-stand aside from the
war? Take no part in it?"
Softly: "That's right."
426Lost Love
"You honestly don't believe we've got to fight
for the South's independence?"
"Is that what the war's about? I'm not so sure."
"Hen, yes that's what it's about. Freedom to live
the way we please. My great-great-grandfather Kent
fought for the same thing in the Revolution. So
did his grandson commy grandfather Jared. He was aboard
Old Ironsides when she got her nickname and we
whipped the British once and for all. The Kents have
always stood up for what they believed, Margaret.
Even my father did in his own crazy way."
"And how many Kents-including, your father- have been
hurt?"
"That's beside the point"
"It certainly isn't. Life's too precious
to squander on-was
"Nobody's squandering anything! Nothing worthwhile
comes cheap, Margaret!"
The red-clad woman and her companions stared.
Gideon lowered his voice:
"I still get the feeling you don't believe in the
South."
"You're unfair!"
"Why?"
"You imply I'm some sort of traitor because I
can't stand to see lives ruined."
"Well, do you believe in the cause or don't
you?"
She hesitated. "I can't lie to you. Not after the
things we've already said to each other. No, I don't
believe in black slavery."
To her surprise, he waved that aside:
"I'm discovering there are a lot of lads in the
troop who don't. Growing up, I thought most
everyone did. But it's a bigger question than the nigras
going free. It's a question of rights."
"If that's all it is, then I'm a Southerner."
He looked relieved. "I might even say yes
to defending those rights if I thought we could win quickly."
The Titansbledbg
His eyes hardened. "But you don't."
"No. And every statistic about the North says I'm
right."
He tried a smile: "I still say one Virginian
can lick a dozen Yanks."
"Gideon-Gideon-was She clutched his sleeve.
"That's what terrifies me so much. Your-little boy
attitude. Don't argue, that's what it is.
You'll go charging off behind Stuart, having a grand time
and singing at the top of your lungs. Until the
minute you see one of your friends shot to death, or-was
She bent her head. Her bonnet hid her face.
"Or die yourself."
She turned to plead with him:
"God gave men life. They have no right to throw it
away, I don't care how holy they think
their cause is! Rather than know you were hurt, I'd
sooner die myself. Or never see-was
She stopped. Angry again, he finished the sentence for
her:
"Never see me again?"
"Gideon, I didn't mean-was
"You did."
"Sweetheart, let's not quarrel-was
His laugh was harsh. "Appears to me weVe already
done a heap of it, Margaret And there's no sign
we'll be doing any less till you change your
mind."
"I won't. But you will, after you meet Papa-was
She broke off again. The car had stopped. The
gaunt woman and her two customers were-leaving.
The driver rapped on the partition between the left and right
front doors:
"End of the line."
428Lost Love
li
Margaret glanced outside, startled. "I didn't
realize we were here already-was
Gideon rose to let her out, then followed her to the
head of the car as the swaying lamp came to rest. The
horse stamped and blubbered its lips as the
couple emerged on a dark, cobbled street which
angled sharply down toward the James. Lanterns
gleamed on three small packets tied up at
piers.
The neighborhood-mostly warehouses and
factories comappeared deserted And smelled none
too savory. The odors of dampness and mold
mingled with the stench of garbage.
The driver started unhitching the nag in preparation for the
return trip, on which it would pull from the opposite
end of the car. As Margaret and Gideon passed, the
old man gave them a perfunctory smile:
"Hope you young folks enjoyed the ride. May be
one of the last you'll get."
Margaret halted. "Are they going to discontinue
service on the line?"
The driver stroked tobacco-stained whiskers. "Could
be. The superintendent said work gangs would be ripping
up the rails pretty quick now. The metal's
valuable, y'know. Every piece of metal in the
South's valuable if we're gunna have enough guns
to beat the fucki- uh-the damn Yanks."
Margaret looked shaken by this latest evidence of
disruption. Perhaps because the driver was embarrassed by his
lapse in language, he switched his
attention to Gideon:
"You're a sojer, eh?"
"Macomb's Hussars."
"Oh, yeah. Quartered out at Camp Lee."
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"We've moving to Harper's Ferry this coming
Sunday."
The old man slapped his arm. "Good for you! Wish
I was young enough to go. You kill a few of them
abolitionists fer me, y'hear?"
"Do my best," Gideon said; but not too loudly.
Margaret had already moved away. Her rigid back
showed how much she hated that kind of talk.
He caught up with her and took hold of her arm.
Their long shadows leaped across the face of a tobacco
warehouse, which ended abruptly at a dark, narrow
passage he assumed was an alley. To his
surprise, Margaret turned into it
He was astonished to see lamps lit behind curtains
in the windows of three rickety frame buildings
no better than the New York tenements he'd
read about. The buildings formed a U at the end of the
cul-de-sac.
His boot slipped on a rotting cabbage. A
fat-bellied rat went scurrying by in
front of them. The air in the dead end was foul.
She led him to the sagging stoop of the building at the
bottom of the U. On the second floor of the one
to his left, he heard a profane argument between a
man and a woman. Without looking around, Margaret
said:
"Welcome to Melton's Court Not very courtly,
is it? I didn't want to bring you here. I've
always been ashamed of it."
He hurt for her. Tried to soothe her bitterness:
"There's nothing shameful about living in a poor
place-was
She spun on the second step, her face dim in
the light filtering through filthy curtains in a first
floor window.
"Oh, yes, there is. Especially when the thing that
brought us here is the very thing you're so eager
to experience. Come inside. Ill show you how
splendid it is to be a soldier."
430Lost Love
ni
The moment she opened the outer door, he whiffed the
vileness of the place. Disinfectant and rotting
wood, evening cooking and human filth blended into a
sickening miasma. The lower hall was
lightless. A feeble gas jet glimmered on the
second landing. As if marching to some private
battle, Margaret began to climb the stairs with
hard, precise steps.
On the second floor, she drew a key from her
reticule, unlocked one of three doors and went
in. He pulled off his shako as he entered the
flat.
Another gas fixture cast slightly brighter light
in the parlor. The furnishings were shabby; out of date.
The broken leg of a settee was propped up with a
small chunk of pine. The carpet was worn and dingy.
Yet the room was immaculate. Furniture and
sills showed no dust. The only disorder was a
spill of newspapers at the foot of a horsehair
chair positioned beneath the gas jet. Margaret and her
aunt obviously worked hard to keep the place
presentable.
To his right, he observed a narrow haDo with two
closed doors and light at the end. He could see
only a few details of the kitchen. A stained
plank floor. A portion of a chipped table. A
washboard leaning against a large iron kettle beside the
rear door. Back there, a man was muttering to himself.
Margaret took off her bonnet and laid
it on an old cherrywood taboret. Sounding
tired, she saidHave "The profits from the shop have always
been slim. Aunt Eliza's also inclined to let
her Christianity influence her credit policy.
She doesn't object if customers wait six
or eight months to pay their bills. She'd be able
to live in a much nicer section if she weren't so
devoted to temper
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ance work-and spent the rest of her money on one
person instead of three."
From the kitchen, the man called in a slurry
voice:
"Who's there? Margaret?"
"Yes, Papa. With a visitor."
"A visitor-his Lord amighty!"
Gideon didn't know precisely what he'd been
expecting. But it certainly wasn't the kind of
jocular boom he was hearing:
"A lady or a gentleman?"
"Gentleman."
"Then I'll bring a jug-was
A purple oath and a rattle testified to a near
calamity with glassware. Next Gideon heard a
peculiar scraping. A grotesque
figure popped into sight at the end of the hall. It
was a man-or half of one-on a small wood
platform with rollers affixed to the bottom.
Glasses and a bottle gleamed in the man's lap as
he propelled himself along the corridor. He
pushed against the floor with his palms; strong,
vigorous pushes.
The closer he came, the more Gideon smelled
whiskey. The parlor reeked by the time the man
arrived. The gaslight showed Gideon the
pinned-back trouser legs on both sides of the
man's crotch. He was too flustered to speak.
At first glance, Margaret's father appeared to be
healthy despite his crippled condition. His hair was
white, spiky, uncombed. His bleary grin was
cordial.
As the moments of strained silence passed, though, more
details registered. Even whiskey couldn't mask
the man's fetid breath. His cheeks were sunken. His
prominent nose was pink, and he had trouble focusing
his eyes. His only strength lay in the
over-developed shoulders and forearms. Gideon
guessed he was forty-five or forty-six. He
looked sixty.
"Papa, this is the young man I've mentioned
before.
432Lost Love
Mister-ah, Lieutenant Gideon Kent.
Gideon, this is my father, Wfflard Marble."
"How do you do, Mr. Marble?"
"Sergeant's the name I go by, Kent." He sounded
petulant. "Margaret knows everybody in
Melton's Court calls me the Sergeant. That's
the rank I held in '47-holy Christ,
Margaret, take these things! Here, here-was
He fumbled in his lap. Only Margaret's quick
action prevented a glass from breaking.
"Put those on the table." She did. "Now hoist
me up so I can meet your friend proper-like-was
Gideon stepped forward to help. Margaret waved
him back. Avoiding his eyes, she slipped her
hands beneath her father's arms, dragged him off the little
platform and supported him with one hand while she
pushed the horsehair chair against his back. With the
girl lifting and the man pushing-he had huge
knuckles comhe was soon in the chair. Gaslight
showed rust on the pins of his trousers
More cheerful again, he rubbed his watering eyes while
he studied Gideon:
"So this is the one. Handsome specimen,
Margaret."
"Papa!"
"Well, goddamn it, he is!" A fuzzy grin.
"Looks like a horse soldier's outfit, son."
"Yes, sir. I'm with Macomb's Hussars."
Marble gestured to the litter of newspapers. "I've
read about "em. Hell of a bunch."
The man had trouble articulating his words. Bunch
sounded like bunsssh. His yellowed teeth were too even
to be his own. The odor of whiskey and sweat sat on
him like a ground fog.
Gideon twisted his shako in his fingers.
"Sit down, young man, sit down! Margaret,
where's your hospitality? Pour a dollop for our
guest."
Stiffly, she walked to the chipped table where she'd
The Titansbledcc
set the bottle and glasses. "This is really quite
unlike you, Papa. I mean drinking before Aunt
Eliza or I get home." Straight-faced,
Gideon sat down as if he hadn't heard the lie
behind her words.
"Unlike-?" Marble scratched his belly. All
at once Margaret's strategy registered on his
fuddled mind. "Oh-guess it is.
Guess it is! Had to celebrate, though."
She poured liquor into two glasses. One drink
was scanter than the other. She handed the short one
to her father:
"What do you have to celebrate?"
He scowled at the meager drink and didn't take it
immediately. He dug in the pocket of his threadbare
vest. Drew out folded sheets of paper:
"I heard from Uncle Sam today. He's in the army
again. 'Course, itfs the wrong army. But at least
he's back where he belongs."
"He belongs in a saloon. He's not fit for
anything else."
"Hang ft, Margaret, don't be so hard on the
man! He's the finest friend I ever had. I
treasure knowing him." To Gideon: "Uncle
Sam's an officer-I mean he was. In
Mexico. Picked up his nickname at West
Point. 'Count of his initials. There's a
picture he sent me when I asked-was
He pointed to the wall. Gideon hadn't noticed
the framed photograph before. He crossed
to examine it He could see nothing unusual in the
full-length portrait of a somewhat ordinary
soldier wearing a long military coat and
clamping a cigar in his teeth against the background of a
tent. Marble went on:
"After the war, they sent him to California. Away from
his family. I guess the loneliness turned him
to what a lot of us turn to-was
He dropped the letter in his lap; took the glass from
434Lost Lave
his daughter's hand. He drank the contents in several
quick swallows.
"Uncle Sam served in the Fourth Illinois.
He saved my life one night in bivouac. Like a
dumb fool I got into a card game with five of his
noncoms. One was a cheat I called him on it.
The pack of 'em started to beat the tar out of me. Like
to killed me before Uncle Sam come along. He
knocked the ringleader down, gagged him with a bayonet
tied across his mouth and marched him off smart as you
please. I probly wouldn't be here if it wasn't
for Uncle Sam. We write each other every chance
we get. He's been pretty miserable since he
left the service.
"What sort of exalted position does he have
now?" Margaret wanted to know.
"This here-was Marble tapped the letter with his empty
glass. "comsays he went up from Galena
to Springfield-was For Gideon's benefit:
"Springfield, Illinois. To enroll. He
figured they could use him since he's had so much
experience. Eleven years with a regular commission.
He caught the governor's eye, and now he's working
for the Adjutant General, mustering in militia
units. Gets paid three dollars a day!"
"About what he's worth," Margaret said.
"Dammit, girl, you quit speakin" of Uncle
Sam that way! He's one of the finest soldiers who
ever trod this earth. Fought like a maniac at
Chapultepec, he did. General Worth cited
him for distinguished service. Major Bob Lee
commended him, too. Why if he was on our side
now-was
"We'd lose," Margaret finished.
Marble scowled. "Shows what you know." He turned
to Gideon to find a more receptive audience.
"Uncle Sam says they may put him in charge
of a regular regiment. The 21st Illinois. A
bunch of no-goods everybody calls the Mattoon
Mob. He'll straighten "em out! We been good
friends 'cause we understand each other. We
The Titansbledce
understand how much soldierin" means-and how a
man sometimes can't fit in after he's had a taste of
it"
He fingered the letter, regret on his face. "Uncle
Sam's pretty strong about the war. Says we got
only two p'litical parties left. Traitors
an' patriots. I don't expect I'll hear
much more from him. But we'll hear plenty about him, you
count on it. Uncle Sam Grant-you remember his
name and see if I ain't right."
Gideon tasted his whiskey. Horrible stuff. He
fought to keep from making a face. Margaret looked
at him as if to ask whether he'd seen enough.
Marble held out his glass. "Another tot, if you
please."
"Papa, I think you've-was
"Another, honey." The man's fixed smile belied
his annoyance. Margaret bristled, then gave in and
refilled the glass.
"So you're in the cavalry, Lieutenant-?"
"Kent. Yes, I am."
"Mighty fine service. I was a horse soldier
myself. Kentucky Mounted Volunteers. We were with
Zach Taylor. President Taylor--" He
drank. "Old Rough an' Ready. I fought under his
command at Buena Vista. Twenty-third of
February, 1847. Did Margaret tell you I
was at Buena Vista?"
"I believe she did mention-was
"Papa," Margaret broke in, "Lieutenant
Kent can't stay long. I doubt he wants to hear
about old campaigns-was
"How do you know what he wants to hear about?" He
drank again. "Fill this up!"
"No, you shouldn't-was
"For Christ's sake quit arguing. Fill it."
Margaret closed her eyes a moment, then obeyed.
Marble wiped a drop of spittle from his lip. "I
went almost the whole way with Zach Taylor. Palo
Alto. Re- saca de la Palma-my God,
what a bunch of fighters
436Lost Love
we had in that war! Stalwarts! My friend Uncle
Sam Grant-his ma named him Ulysses after some
old Greek story-I don't know which one, nobody
knew any Greek stories in the Kentucky
hills where I was raised. Uncle Sam could fight
like a son-of-a-bitch. He wasn't the only one,
though. There was Lieutenant Longstreet.
Lieutenant Meade. Oh-an' Captain
Bragg. Old Braxton Bragg. He
had balls as hard as the shell he lobbed out of his
cannon. You know much about Buena Vista,
Lieutenant?"
Gideon shook his head.
"We fought on a rainy day. Miserable, shitty
weather-was
"Papa."
"Sorry, sweet." But he wasn't. "Old
Scott, that damn turncoat Virginian who's
runnin' the army up in Washington, he'd taken a
lot of our men for it the campaign to knock out
Mexico City. We had only about five thousand
effectives left Know how many Santa Anna had
with him when we tangled?"
"No, sir."
"Twenty thousand! Jesus, Jesus!-we had our
work cut out, we did!" He rocked back and forth.
His discolored dentures glistened. Made of
animal teeth, Gideon suspected.
Margaret stood near her father's chair, speaking
to Gideon with her eyes:
You see?
He felt obliged to offer another comment:
"President Davis was with you, wasn't he?"
"He surely was! Why, there wasn't a
hotter partisan the live-long day than Colonel
Davis of the Mississippi Rifles."
Marble drained his drink. He seemed to look through
Gideon to the lost, wintry day of victory.
"Davis took a bad wound. But he never stopped
fighting, He kept those Mississippi boys in
their red flannel shirts
The Titansbledcg
an' white pants scrappin' like devils-was His
voice dropped to a murmur "We fought near a
mountain pass. La Angostura. The Narrows. A
little ways on where the valley widened out, there was this
hacienda called Buena Vista. That's where of'
General Torrejon took our measure."
The rheum-filled eyes shone. Without so much as a
glance at his daughter, Marble extended his glass.
She filled it again.
"God, there were brave boys on that field.
Bragg wheeled his light battery hither and yon,
going wherever things were the hottest. And old Rough and
Ready- nobody could ruffle that old fighting cock.
He sat there on that farm plug he rode-Old
Whitey-ridic'lous animal-to "
A broad gesture. His hand nearly upset the
glass Margaret was extending. Marble
snatched the glass and gulped.
"comb Taylor, he was cool as a pond in
February. He saw the greaser line crumblin'
some, so he says, "Give them a little more of the
grape, Captain Bragg. Give them a little more
of the grape." Outnumbered or no, we had an
army!"
Marble raised his glass to salute the vanished
companies. Then he finished the whiskey. A
sardonic grin distorted his mouth:
"If you been around Margaret any time to speak of,
Lieutenant Kintz-was
"Kent."
"Oh, tha's right. Sorry. Get a little foggy
here-was He tapped the empty glass against his
temple. "Kent, not Kintz. Mus' remember
that."
Once more the ritual of extending the glass, which
Margaret filled to the brim. Gideon wondered why
she pandered to the man's vice. Was she tired of
battling him?
"What was I saying?" Marble belched. "Oh, yeh-
438Lost Love
Margaret She don't cotton to warfare, although it's
the most honorable calling a man can have.
Serving his country. Serving his flag-she don' understand
it because she's a woman."
The careless condescension put fire in Margaret's
cheeks. Her hands fisted at her sides as Marble
went on:
"She don't know how it felt to be there at the
hacienda. General Torrejon's lancers tried
to break through from the rear. That's when us mounted boys from
Kentucky he'ped carry the day. Us an'
Colonel Yell's Arkansas regiment and some
Indiana sharpshooters on the roof of the hacienda
buildings. I killed four greasers for sure and
two more possibles. Then I lost my horse. A
greaser caught me on the ground an' hacked my
left leg to pieces with his saber. Another one shot
me through the right leg before an Indiana boy killed
both of "em. When I woke up, there was a gent
with a bloody hacksaw standin" over me. My legs
were gone. I'll admit I cried some. But not too
much-was
The wrinkles around Marble's eyes deepened. He
saw glory in the room's dark corners.
"I stopped soon as I heard we'd sent old
Santa Anna runnin' to save his skin. It was the
finest day I ever spent. That kind of a day
a dumb dirt farmer's privileged to experience
once in his life, if God's good to him."
Margaret turned away.
"Gloriousl So don' you listen to what Margaret
says, Lieutenant Kin-uh, Kent." He was
blubbering now; submerged in the liquor and the
memories. He grew waspish:
"Women don't have any grasp of how it is with a
man. A man's got to prove he can stand up to the
worst. That's why war can be a glorious thing-was
He sipped and leaned his head back, gazing at the
ceiling but seeing bright pennons and the red smear of
The Titansbledci
cannon beneath a drizzling sky. His voice was
barely audible:
"Give "em a little more of the grape, Cap'n
Bragg"
Marble kept talking, an unintelligible mumble. His
right arm lolled over the side of the chair. The last
of the whiskey spilled on the carpet. Gideon
caught one more word, pronounced slowly; savored:
"Glorious."
He rose. "I'd better be going. A pleasure
to meet you, Mr. Marble."
Margaret's father tried to focus his eyes.
"Yessir, Lieutenant Kintz. You come back.
Like to tell you the whole story. The whole action,
hour by hour. You can be proud you said yes to the cause,
it's-was
His head flopped over. A prolonged, wheezing
sigh.
"coma glorious thing for a man to do."
Gideon put on his shako as he started out.
Margaret hurried after him while the white-haired
man dozed and mumbled. Gideon opened the door.
Marble roused:
"Forgot to-call me Sergeant. Everyone knows-the
Sergeant, he was-at Buena Vista-was
Margaret slammed the door and faced him on the sour
landing. Her lips looked bloodless.
"Answer me now, Gideon. Do you still want to be
what he was?" She shook both his arms.
"Do you?"
IV
He knew what reply she wanted. He knew he
might be able to evade her until she was calmer.
He didn't want to hurt her, but he was still
annoyed that she'd think him so easily influenced:
"I can see why you hate what happened to your father.
But it strikes me Buena Vista's a good
memory for him, not a bad one."
440Lost Love
"He's too drunk to know the difference. He's been
drunk for fourteen years!"
Fatigue and his aches and his inexperience with this sort
of ideological fencing drove him to snap at her:
"You don't heir) much. Whenever he asks for the
busthead, you hand it to him."
"If I didn't, someone else would. The
neighbors will fetch him whiskey any time he
thumps on the wall."
"Where's he get the money?"
"From Aunt Eliza. He's worse when he
doesn't have liquor in him. He screams and
raves-she can't stand to see him hurting. She hates
it more than she hates alcohol."
"He may be hurting, but I'd say he's a proud
man. A brave one, too."
"Brave? He's pathetic! Look at that man he
worships-was
"Uncle Sam?"
"A sot who failed at everything once he left the
army. Failed at farming. Failed at peddling real
estate comd you know what he was doing before he got that
pitiful job papa's so excited about?
He was living on his family's charity. Clerking in
his father's leather goods store in Galena-but even his own
father and brothers couldn't stand him. They wouldn't lend
him so much as a penny because they knew he'd throw it
away in a saloon. You call that kind of man a
worthy friend? Someone to admire?"
"But maybe your father's right. Maybe the man can't be
happy anywhere except in the army."
She scoffed: "If he's typical of the new
Union troops, I can imagine their behavior.
They'll drill in grog shops and parade with rum in
their canteens. Contrary to what papa says,
nobody's ever going to hear of Uncle Sam-unless
he's shot down drunk on a battlefield!"
Testily: "Well, if he wants to go out that
way-if it makes him happy-why not?"
T'Damn you, Gideon Kent! Hasn't it sunk
in yet? Papa was just like you before he went
to Mexico-was She started to beat at him with her
fists. "Just like you backslash was
"Hold on, Margaret. I'm worn out-"
The flying fists hammered his chest. He batted her
left hand aside, hard:
"I said hold on!"
Silence. She lowered her fists in defeat:
"I guess bringing you here didn't do any good."
"What did you expect? That I'd offer to quit the
troon because I might wind uo crippled too? I
said it before. That's a risk I accept. We better
get a few things straight. I love you. I want
to be with you-marry you. But not at the price you're
asking."
"I know you won't resign. I just want you to be
realistic about what can happen to you."
"What am I supposed to do? Put in a request
for duty behind the lines? The hell with that! I want a
chance at the Yanks."
"You're angry again-was
"You're damn right. You make me feel like a baby
instead of a man. I don't think the war's going to be
as bad as you make out. But even if it is-which I
doubt-I mean to do my part."
She looked much smaller all at once. "I can't
even convince you to-take care of yourself? Be
cautious-?"
He grabbed her forearms. "Being cautious won't
accomplish a blasted thing! Unless we go at the
Yanks full tilt-was
"Gideon."
"comthere isn't a chance of our win-was
"Gideon!"
Her eyes frightened him. "What is it?"
"Take your hands off me."
Paling, he did. His arms dropped to his sides.
His fingertios drummed against his dusty blue
trousers. Her voice started loud and grew louder:
"i
he Titansbledda
442Lost Love
"You can call me wrong-headed. You can call me
unpatriotic-call me anything you want. I
love you. But war has cost me too much. I
couldn't stand the sight of you coming back hurt.
Ruined-the way he is-no, let me ftnishl
I'll have nothing to do with this war. Or-was
She closed her eyes. Spoke from her pain:
"Or any man who involves himself in it."
"Then you'll have nothing to do with me, goddamn it!"
A slight nod. "I realized that a few minutes
ago." A sad shrug. "I suppose it's better
to have a little hurt now than a lot of it later."
She flung an arm around his neck; pressed her
wet cheek against his:
"Goodbye, Gideon."
Before he could think of what to say, she rushed
back into the flat. He heard the bolt slide
home.
"Margaret?" He pounded the door, his temper making
him roar. "Open up!"
A man's head poked from a doorway on the first
floor. "Who the fire's doin" all the
hollerin'-?"
"Shut the hell up!" he bawled, beating the door.
The clotted spots on his knuckles began to bleed
again. Finally, he gave the door a ferocious kick
and ran down the stairs past the goggling tenant.
He stormed out of Melton's Court and headed for the
end of the horsecar line. A steam whistle sounded on
the river, shrill as a cry of pain.
He swore nonstop. Booted anything in his path-a
broken vegetable crate; a stone; the
putrid-smelling corpse of an immense rat.
Damn her for being a soft, scared woman! She'd
ruined what had begun as the
The Titanseableddc
sweetest night of his life; a night which promised
years of-
Never mind It was over.
Not his fault, either. She was the one who'd acted
unreasonable-and slammed the door. Let
her go hang!
He'd never felt so angry at another human
being, with the possible exception of his father that night in
Washington.
He saw a horsecar starting its run back toward
the center of town. He raced to catch it, swung
aboard and yelled at the driver as he paid his fare:
"Give that plug a good slap of the reins! I've
got to get back to camp."
He slammed into the lantern-lit car and sank down.
He realized he was sitting in the identical spot
he and Margaret had occupied on then earlier ride.
He moved.
He stared out the window. The iron tires screeched
on the rails. He was glad it was over. She was
stubborn and wrong. He was a man, fulfilling a
man's responsibilities. If she couldn't
understand and accept that, he was better off without her.
"Yes, sir," he growled to himself. "Better off."
But if that was true, why did he feel so wretched?
CHAPTERV
With Jeb Stuart
A LITTLE MORE than a month later, Gideon
Kent's life had changed to such a remarkable
degree that the parting in Rockett's sometimes
seemed unreal.
He still thought of Margaret, and usually with regret But
he didn't write her. Nor did she write
him.
Occasionally he thought of her father as well. But he
never seriously entertained the idea that what had
happened to the Sergeant could happen to him.
Margaret's father had been an old man-over
thirty-when he mustered in for the Mexican War.
Age had probably slowed him down at Buena
Vista. Gideon had confidence in his own youth and
strength. Horror stories from the past had no bearing
on his future.
Sometimes he speculated on whether better control
of his own temper might have altered the outcome with
Margaret. He doubted it. Such introspection
became less frequent as the pace of military
operations quickened, and events pushed both sides toward
a major confrontation.
Douglas was dead in Chicago. Jefferson Davis
and his cabinet had arrived in Richmond. The
Federals had crossed the Potomac on the
twenty-fourth of May and fortified Alexandria. The
Union commander, McDowell, had arrogantly
appropriated the Lee mansion for his
headquarters. General Lee had written him to ask
that the property be treated as respectfully as
possible.

The Titansbledde
McDowell replied that he'd do his best. No one
believed it.
The Yanks had a martyour now. Some hothead named
Colonel Ellsworth had invaded an Alexandria
hotel, the Marshall House, to tear down a
Confederate banner flying from its roof. In clear
weather, the offending flag could be seen in Washington
City.
Coming downstairs with the flag, Ellsworth was shot-
gunned by the hotel owner, who was in turn killed a
moment later by one of the colonel's New York
Fire Zouaves. The colonel's body lay in
state in the presidential mansion. The death
heightened Northern hatred.
Runaway slaves had arrived at Fort Monroe.
General Benjamin Butler refused to surrender them
to their owners. Butler's adamant stand against
returning "black contrabands" to their rightful owners
thrust the slave issue to the forefront again.
Virginians seethed and denounced
Butler's illegal behavior.
Lincoln had issued a call for a special
Congressional session to convene on July fourth.
Northern newspapers issued a call of their
own-for a demonstration of Federal power. The chief
agitator was Greeley, whose Tribune reached the
Confederate lines from time to time, smuggled across the
Potomac by Southern sympathizers. Angrily,
Gideon read the New York editor's repeated
exhortation: "Forward to Richmond"
The sloganeering was understandable, Gideon thought in
calmer moments. Letters from his mother in Lexington noted
the Confederate Congress would assemble in Richmond
on the twentieth of July. Greeley and the other
journalistic agitators wanted the city in
Union hands by that date. They had a practical
reason. The three-month volunteers Lincoln had
called out in April would be free to go home
by July's end.
At Harper's Ferry, Gideon's regiment had
been turned over to the Provisional Army of the
Confederacy. Term of service-one year. General
Joe Johnston
446With Jeb Stuart
relieved the peculiar Colonel
Jackson and withdrew from Harper's Ferry. He
felt the position could not be properly defended, and
its hilly setting made it unsuitable for the constant
drill needed to sharpen green recruits.
Before Johnston pulled out, he burned the
railroad bridge over the river. Down the
Valley, at Winchester, he established the
headquarters of the Army of the Shenandoah. Colonel
Jackson was posted some nine miles north, at
bucolic Bunker Hill.
The army in the Valley was growing; becoming truly
representative of the Confederacy. It now included
men from both of the Carolinas, and from the deep-South
states of Georgia, Alabama and
Mississippi. Tennessee volunteers had
arrived; even a Maryland battalion.
Johnston was highly visible around the regimental
camps. From the first, the soldiers took to him. He
was a small, animated man in his middle fifties
with a gift for making the lowliest private feel
important Often the general paused to ask a question
of a young soldier. Where did he come from? How was he
getting on?
Joe Johnston looked and acted like a commanding
officer. He sported a carefully
trimmed gray goatee and tended to strut. He was a
gamecock, all right. Just wait till the Yanks
felt his claws!
Johnston was also considered a great improvement over
Old Jack, as some of the soldiers had begun
calling the odd professor from the Military
Institute. Colonel Jackson still refused
to dress properly. He went about in worn-out high
boots and an old, single-breasted uniform coat.
The coat was blue, threadbare and too large.
Jackson's headgear consisted of one shabby cadet
cap, which he usually wore tilted down over his
forehead to hide his stormy, light-colored eyes.
Most of the rest of his face was concealed by a bushy
beard the color of rusting metal.
Men liked the gamecock, but they laughed at old
Old
The Titansbleddg
Jack-probably out of fear. When he was seen, he
was never smiling. At Harper's Ferry he'd
acquired a reputation as a harsh disciplinarian. It
was whispered that because of his religious convictions, he'd
probably refuse to fight a battle if it should
accidentally falj on a Sunday. Altogether, Gideon
and a great many others crossed him off as a
fanatical farmer type of whom little could be
expected in the way of intelligent leadership.
In the first week of June, General Beauregard
arrived in Richmond where he received a public
ovation and assumed command of the Army of the Potomac on
the so-called Alexandria line. The line's center was
Manassas Junction, some thirty miles below
Washington and sixty miles from Johnston's force
at Winchester.
Manassas constituted a logical target for the
Federal army because of its strategic location near
major highways. It was also a junction point for the
little Manassas Gap Railroad that linked the
Valley's rich agricultural lands with the eastern
part of the state via the Bull Run Mountains. If
the Federals could seize Manassas, communications
and shipments of food between the two regions could be
interrupted. It took no genius to guess Federal
strategy would probably call for two armies- one
to devastate the Valley, another to seize and hold
Manassas, thereby preventing either Johnston or
Old Bory from using the railroad to relieve the
other. With Manassas captured, the Federals would
be in a good position to mount a drive to Richmond.
As couriers shuttled back and forth through the
mountains, Gideon learned that the emerging Union
plan was no secret to Old Bory. He read it
in the Washington newspapers he received every day.
Indeed, the North's intentions were soon widely
known in Johnston's encampments. Some papers got
there as well, and Gideon read of General
Scott's opposition to the whole Federal concept.
Piecemeal attacks-a hasty thrust here, another
there-ran counter to his own master
448With Jeb Stuart
plan. He wanted to spend the proper amount of time
in preparation, then enclose the entire South with
naval blockades and military advances on
fronts as far apart greater-than as Manassas and the
Mississippi. He wanted to encircle the enemy
like a constricting snake. Scott's Anaconda, the
papers called it.
But the helpful newspapers said Lincoln was
impatient. The special July fourth Congress
would share that impatience-and Lincoln's concern about the
ninety- day enlistments. The papers claimed
Scott was being overruled, and the double thrust
into Virginia would be the plan of choice. Time for the
attack-an unspecified date in July.
In June the Confederates began to see the
proof. Pickets brought back word of a Federal
force massing in Maryland under General Robert
Patterson, a relic whose service dated back
to 1812. But each passing day helped the Shenandoah
army. By the end of the month, staff officers
predicted, it would be up to a strength of ten thousand
effectives.
Gideon was astonished at the amateurism which
seemed to prevail in Washington. He continued
to hear that Beauregard knew the specifics of
Northern troop strength and tentative dates of
departure; Old Bory received daily reports from
a Southern sympathizer named Mrs. Rose
Greenhow. The Wild Rose was continually
wheedling-some said seducing-Federal officers and
clerks. Maybe even a Congressman or two.
The information she acquired was converted to cipher and
slipped across the Potomac by courier.
Gideon couldn't believe Mrs. Greenhow would be
allowed to continue her spying, but she was. Though under
suspicion, she wasn't arrested. No one in power
seemed to think it polite to arrest a lady. So
Old Bory continued to read the papers and cipher
messages, arrange his defense lines and receive
volunteer units from all over the South.
He issued a proclamation calling on
The Titansbleddi
Virginians to rally against the unprincipled
Federals. Their cry, he said, would be simple and
savage. Beauty and booty. Rape and
destruction-
All of this reached Gideon where he was stationed-
Bunker Hill. It was a lovely place. The
sweet-smelling meadows and the hazy slopes of the
Blue Ridge in the distance created a summery charm
that seemed far removed from any danger. Even the
few skirmishes that took place had a comic-opera
quality.
About a hundred of Lieutenant Colonel
Stuart's troopers, for example, rode up to the
Potomac and repelled an "invasion" by Maryland
canal workers. Several of the enemy were killed. No
cavalryman received so much as a scratch.
Gideon's company didn't take part in the foray,
which displeased him. He wanted to fight; others were-and
setting enviable examples. The camp had
celebrated the news of the June tenth engagement at
Big Bethel Church, only eight miles from
Butler's outposts at Fort Monroe. Twelve
hundred Confederates under the general command of
Colonel Magruder-Prince John-had routed
nearly twice as many Federals. The Yanks had
blundered into Magruder's men and fought like schoolboys,
losing eighteen dead. There was one Confederate
casualty. Did anyone need further proof one
Southerner was more than a match for a dozen
Pennsylvania farmers and New York ribbon
clerks? The Federals would stop squealing, "Forward
to Rich- mondl" after a few more actions like Big
Bethel. Gideon just wanted his chance to be part of one
of those actions-
He was still feeling impatient on a sunny morning
in mid-June when the First Virginia Cavalry
Regiment again assembled for instruction t greater-than
you its commander.
The regiment was not yet at full strength. Only
ten companies so far. Stuart hoped for at least
twelve. But
450With Jeb Stuart
the existing First Virginia still made a splendid if
motley sight in the damp meadow.
The men were mounted on every kind of horse from farm
plugs to thoroughbreds. The horses stamped while the
troopers exchanged whispers and fidgeted in their
saddles. Shortly, the regimental
staff-Colonel Stuart and several majors
appointed by Richmond-cantered along in front of the
assembled companies.
The majors looked tired and openly disdainful of the
appearance of their men. Stuart, by contrast, seemed in
high spirits. He always seemed in high spirits. If he
ever slept for more than an hour or two, no one
knew it
There was something rakish and grand about Jeb Stuart; a
personal aura in no way diminished by his
ragtag uniform. He wore an old Union
Army greatcoat and trousers of blue, and ancient
boots whose tops reached to his knees. He'd added
personal touches to the shabby costume: spotless
gauntlets of white buckskin; a fawn- colored
hat panned up on the right and decorated with a white
ostrich plume. Beneath the open greatcoat Gideon
glimpsed a sash of gold silk that held Stuart's
French saber. Small gold spurs decorated his
boots.
James Ewell Brown Stuart was almost six feet
tall, stocky and long-armed. His huge, flaring
beard and luxuriant mustachios glinted with bronze
highlights as he jogged by on a blood bay hunter
with black points. Stuarf s blue eyes
were merry but alert. The troopers agreed he looked
better riding than walking. When he was afoot, the
contrast between his long arms and chunky torso was more
apparent His classmates at West Point had
nicknamed him Beauty, for the same reason a man of
great height was sometimes called Shorty.
Stuart and his majors completed their inspection and
cantered out to a position in front of the regiment
Stuart dismounted. Gideon rubbed Dancer's neck and
pressed his lips together to bide a yawn.
The Titansbledea
Gideon was leaner and more fit than at any time in his
life. He was also exhausted. Beside him was First
Lieutenant Jack Harris, who looked
horrible. Harris had spent the night drinking
illegal busthead and playing euchre in the tent,
making it impossible for Gideon to sleep.
Gideon's eye wandered to Captain Lester
Macomb. The company commander had lost about twenty
pounds since their first meeting. He'd developed a
nervous tic in his cheek-with good reason. A number
of volunteer commissions had already been revoked because
the regimental officers believed those holding them were
incompetent. Jackson had started it in the
infantry. Ma- comb was afraid he might
encounter a similar fate in the cavalry.
As for the Hussars themselves-now I Company- they
looked much less presentable than they had in
Richmond. Almost to a man, they had discarded the
useless rabbit-fur dolmans. A few still wore
shakos, but other, more practical types of hats
had appeared. Gideon had appropriated a dark,
soft-brimmed Union campaign hat from
Private Enders. The private had been
reassigned to Company Q. "Reassigned" was a
euphemism for punishment.
Company Q consisted of incorrigibles plus a few
men "temporarily without mounts. Like some of the other
well-born members of the regiment-including
Gideon's lanky, dark-haired friend, Private
Rodney Arbuckle -Enders regarded military
discipline as an insult to his status as a
gentleman. The preceding week, Jack Harris
had assigned Enders toThat guard duty. Enders
had refused. Harris repeated the order, lacing his
language with some of his favorite gutter talk.
Enders promptly challenged him to a duel.
The duel was fought in a woods well away from
camp. Gideon had held his own horse and that of the
first lieutenant while the antagonists
faced off with re
452With Jeb Stuart
volvers. Enders fired first, narrowly missing his
superior. Harris" shot went wild. The ball
struck Enders' horse behind the right eye. Minus a
mount and charged with insubordination, Private Enders
was transferred to Company Q before me day was over.
Gideon took possession of Enders' hat, as
well as a forty-two-inch Union light cavalry
saber that Enders had brought from home. Enders had
enjoyed displaying the sword at the evening cook
fire, even though he wasn't entitled to wear it
Gideon still felt a bit guilty about the
quasi-theft. On the other hand, until the dud, he
was the only officer in I Company lacking a
blade. And he doubted Enders would ever be returned
to the ranks.
The confiscated saber hung from a white sash around his
waist. There were no standardized uniforms as yet, and
hence no badges of rank. A sash had to serve.
He glanced at his friend. Private Arbuckle was
examining his fingernails, oblivious to Stuart out in the
field. Rodney was almost as bad about discipline as
Enders, though not nearly as arrogant Gideon let
out a low whistle. Rodney heard it and
reluctantly turned his attention to the commander.
Stuart addressed the regiment in a loud but pleasant
voice:
"Gentlemen of the First Virginia, let me say
I'm well pleased with your progress. A little more
drill is in order, however. We can't be
satisfied to be second best We know the
resources of the opponent are greater than ours. So
we must substitute expertise-and esprit-for
numbers. Good training and the spirit of the chase will make the
difference in battle."
A few cheers broke out among the enlisted men.
Stuart held his smile, but his blue eyes ripped
from offender to offender, silencing the noise. He knew
well the problem of whipping untrained and highly
independent men into some semblance of military
organization. The
The Titansbledec
troopers of the First Virginia had the spirit he
wanted. But they had not yet become soldiers.
"We'll review the fundamentals once more,"
Stuart continued. Standing on the left side of his
mount, he extended a gauntlet toward his reins.
Gideon admired the smoothness of the move.
Despite the long arms and legs so at
odds with his short torso, Stuart possessed a
natural grace few could match
"Stand to horse-everything begins from that."
Somewhere to the rear, Gideon heard a rattle of
musketry. One of the infantry units sharpshooting.
He yearned to wipe a trickle of sweat on the
underside of his freshly razored chut
Far away, artillery caissons rumbled. The
meadow was warm beneath the cloudless June sky. Fat
yellow jackets buzzed in the long grass. Jack
Harris belched, then idly swatted at a fly
pestering the ears of his horse. Stuart scowled him.
Harris reddened.
"Note again the correct stance." Stuart
demonstrated. "Heels together-so. Left hand
hanging naturally at the side. Body erect but not
stiff-was
Suddenly Gideon heard the creak of leather; the
jingle of harness. Turning, he sucked in a breath.
"Rodney!"
The long-jawed private from Peninsula paid no
attention to the whisper. He broke ranks and walked
his horse several yards in front of the company.
Captain Macomb looked apoplectic. But
Rodney was well out in front of him,
oblivious. Cheerfully, he waved and shouted:
"Colonel? Tore we go ahead, wonder if I
might bring up a point."
Harris goggled. Gideon was afraid Macomb was
going to faint and fall from the saddle. He whispered
again:
"Jesus Christ, get back here!"
454With Jeb Stuart
Astonished that his curiosity met with objection,
Rodney Arbuckle swung to glance at his
officers.
"I want to speak to the colonel. What's wrong with
that?"
He faced Stuart again. The commander's cheeks were
flushed. He dropped the reins, rigid beside the
blood bay. The fingers of his gauntlets flexed.
Rodney stood in his stirrups.
"Colonel, sir? It's about our company smithy.
He shod Red Eye here, and I'd like you to look at
the piss poor job he did. I'm not the only one
with a complaint. A number of the other boys-was
"Trooper," Stuart roared, "return to your
position!"
Rodney blinked, hurt. "You mean you don't care
if our smith's no damn good?"
"I said return to your position!"
Rodney turned as red as the colonel. "Now
wait just a minute, sir. You're talkin' to a
gentleman, and I was under the assumption I was doin'
the same. I see nothing wrong with askin' a sensible
question."
Quivering, Macomb leaned over his mount's neck
to plead in a strangled voice:
"For God's sake, Arbuckle, don't say any
more or-was
"Trooper," Stuart broke in, "you have sixty
seconds to return to your position and shut your mouth
or you'll be back in Richmond by tomorrow night."
Rodney clenched his teeth. Gideon thought he
might charge the colonel Stuart began walking
toward the private.
"I realize a great many of you gentlemen fail
to comprehend the need to obey orders-maintain
discipline- submit yourselves to the commands of your
superiors. I could try to present the case in a
reasonable way. I could tell you obedience is necessary
for a pretty performance on horseback-being good
riders, most of you are doubtless quite interested in a
pretty performance."
The Titansbledee
The sarcasm grew heavier:
"But in combat, gentlemen, there is no time for
outpourings of sweet reason. So let me be more
direct. Do not break ranks unless instructed. Do
your utmost to forget you were formerly able to lord it over your
chums back home because you had a little more money or a
better horse. Kindly stay where you're supposed
to at all times-was
He reached Rodney and glared. Rodney seemed
to alternate between rage and cringing terror.
"One more tidbit of advice-private. In
battle, I believe you'll notice it's the
undisciplined man-the man guilty of breaking
ranks-who gets shot first. The veteran knows there's
safety in numbers." Stuart drew a deep
breath. "Now perhaps we can recommence the drill. I
sincerely hope my little explanation of why you should
obey orders has satisfied your curiosity- because
your sixty seconds are up."
One white gauntlet lashed out to slap Rodney's
horse. Stuarr jumped back as the animal reared.
Rodney fought to keep his seat. Finally, he
controlled Red Eye and maneuvered the horse back
to the ranks. Stuart faced about and marched off.
Rodney fumed under his breath:
"Goddamn West Pointers! No respect
whatsoever for aeagentleman's rights!"
Jack Harris rode up beside him. "You pull
another stunt like that, you're gonna be exercisin' your
fuckin' rights sittin' on your fuckin' ass in
Company Q."
"I don't care. Those West Point boys treat
us like niggers!"
"Shut up," Gideon hissed. Rodney looked
deeply injured; eveji his good friend had turned on
him.
Here and there in I Company, others voiced whispered
support for Rodney's stand. Gideon suddenly
wondered whether even a man of Colonel Stuart's
abil-
456With Jeb Stuart
ity could turn this pack of disorderly
individualists into a cavalry regiment.
Stuart certainly gave it extra effort that morning.
He went through the fundamentals, then kept the
companies practicing on their own until noon and
beyond. The sun grew broiling. Men began to faint and
tumble from the saddle. By three o'clock thirty or forty
troopers lay on the ground in various stages of
heat prostration.
But the drill kept on.
ii
The horses stirred and tugged at their picket lines
as Gideon approached.
The stars were out. Behind him, lanterns glowed in the
regiment's tents. He spied a figure strolling
among the animals, an old musket cocked over
one shoulder.
"Private Arbuckle?"
The sentry halted. Turned. Gideon swore when
he saw the dusting of starlight on curly gray
hair.
"No, sir, Lieutenant. It's me."
Gideon ducked under one of the ropes. "Damn it,
Isom, where's your master?"
The middle-aged black dressed in cast-off clothing
tried to blunt Gideon's anger with a smile.
"He was feel- in' a mite poorly, sir. He
asked me-was
"I can imagine why he was feeling poorly!"
Gideon broke in. "Because Stuart reamed his butt
this morning and I ordered him to stand watch tonight Stay
here, Isom. You'll be relieved in a minute."
"But I don't mind, Lieutenant Master
Rodney brung me along for times like this."
"Colonel Stuart has issued explicit
orders. No body- servants are to stand in for their
owners. You'll be sent home as soon as we move
into the field. Your master
The Titansbledeg
won't have anyone to relieve him then. So he'd
damn well better start practicing."
"Yes, sir," Isom said in a meek tone. "But
master Rodney, he ain't "customed to being"
ordered around-was
"We're going to fix thati" Gideon stalked
back to the tents.
Ih one of them, someone was plucking a slow version of
"Dixie's Land" on a banjo. In another, he
heard Harris conducting a euchre game. Harris
had undergone a remarkable change of luck since his
election. He seldom lost. And he welcomed
players without money in their pockets. He handed them
kernels of corn, tallied their losses at the end
of the game and collected cash once the men received their
back pay.
A couple of Rodney's messmates were lounging in
front of a small fire outside their tent. One was
writing a letter. The other leaned on his elbow and puffed
on a cob pipe while reading a worn
copy of The Life and Opinions of Tristram
Shandy, a novel still considered quite racy. With an odd
feeling, Gideon noted the design stamped in
gold at the bottom of the spine. The partially filled
tea bottle of Kent and Son.
The pipe smoker raised his head; started to speak.
Gideon gave him no time. He slapped the flap
of the tent aside.
Rodney yelped in surprise. He was resting on
his cot, bare-chested, a letter in his hand. Shredded
wrapping paper, a huge mound of large and small
articles and some kind of red bunting lay beside the cot
"Private Arbuclde, you undisciplined
son-of-abiteh-was Gideon began.
Rodney's dark eyes grew comresentful. "Come
on, Gideon-to "
"Lieutenant!"
"All right. Lieutenant. Do you have to holler that
way? I took enough abuse for one day."
"Stand up."
458With Jeb Stuart
"What?"
"You heard me. Put on your uniform and get to the
horse corral double-quick."
Rodney didn't get up. Instead, he
laughed. "Boy, with that temper of yours, you'll be a
junior Jeb Stuart "fore you know it Not me,
though," he sighed, relaxing and returning his attention
to the letter.
Gideon snatched it away, banging his head on a
hanging lantern:
"Ow! Dammit, you're making me mad,
Rodney."
"You be careful how you handle that letter. It's from my
girl Nancy. Miss Nancy Wonderly of
White House-was
"I'll tear the damned thing to pieces if you don't
get dressed!"
"My. You sure have gone high-ass since you got
elected."
"That's right, I got elected. And until you and the
rest of the boys decide to put someone else in my
place-was
"Lead us not into temptation," Rodney murmured.
"comx's my responsibility to see that orders are
carried out. Lord!" He raked a hand through his hair.
"If every man in this regiment keeps galloping off
on his own, we'll never whip the Yanks. Don't
you realize Stuart was right this morning? A man by himself
is ten times more likely to get killed than
one who stays with the troop and does what he's
told"
A shrug. "Maybe so. But I am just not used to being
ordered about. Do this, do that, piss here, crap there,
yes, sir, no, sir, up your West Point bum,
sir!"
Rodney's grin failed to mollify his friend. He
grabbed the letter, then tried a new tack:
"You can let Isom take over for a while.
Lookit all this stuff I got to sort out!"
Gideon surveyed the jumble of articles beside the
cot "Did your girl send you a package?"
The Titansbledei
"More like the entire contents of the general store. What
am I goin" to do with all this?" He crouched and
began pawing through the shipment. "Extra pair of
pants. Extra set of underdrawers-was
"Pretty personal." Gideon smiled in spite
of himself.
Rodney spread his fingers and tented the drawers.
"Silk! Cost a fortune. Can you imagine what'd
happen
to me if Jeb found out I not only shoot off my
mouth
but do it wearin' silk panties?"
Shuddering, he discarded the garment His face grew
forlorn as he fingered through the rest
"Two pair of boots. Eight pair of
stockin's. Four flannel shirts-flannel! In
the summertime!" "Guess she thinks you're
cold-blooded." A foxy grin. "She knows
better'n that" "Then she doesn't want you to catch
the grippe." "Lookin' glass. Six cans of
peaches. Cough syrup. Salts for the bowels.
Pencils. Paper. Button stick. Sewing kit
New razor and strop-those, I can carry. A
Bible. A pocket Shakespeare-she must think I
got time to sit around improvin' my mind."
"Maybe the books are supposed to keep you away
from wicked companions."
"Could be. For toppers, here's a double wool
blanket comanda rubber one. YoUs need a wagon,
not just a horse." He sighed. "She's just tryin'
to look after me. "Course, there's a price for
all this generosity-was "Oh! She wants something in
return-was "Wipe that leer off your face. It
isn't what you're thinldn". Not this time,
anyway." He pointed to the letter. "When we finally
fight, she wants me to run around afterward an' pick
her up some souvenirs." "Like what?"
"Lord, I don't know. A bayonet. Some
Yank's false teeth-anything she can show off, I
guess. She's a mighty patriotic girl-even
if she's got no notion of how light the cavalry
travels." He kicked a good portion of
460With Jeb Stuart
the shipment under the cot. "Want to see her
picture? She sent that, too."
"Sure."
"Nancy may not be too quick in the head, but I got
to admit she's the prettiest little piece in four
counties. Hotter'n a fowling piece after a rabbit
hunt, too."
From beneath the cot blanket he drew a small leather
presentation case, opened it and showed Gideon a
daguerreotype of a plump, pretty young woman with
ringlets over her ears.
"Mighty good looking girl," Gideon agreed.
He hoped he'd calmed his friend to the point where he
could talk sense to him.
"Bet she'll raise a rumpus in bed once we
get married." Rodney shut his eyes and let out a
grunt of anticipation.
"You haven't-ah-sampled the merchandise yet?"
Gideon's voice had a strangely
hoarse quality. The little picture-box in his Rand
brought Margaret's face to mind. He experienced a
sharp feeling of loss, then longing. He hardened himself
against it. She wasn't the girl for him and never would
be.
Less boisterous all at once, Rodney
answered the question in a reflective way:
"Truth is, I haven't. Not that I wouldn't like
to, mind. Nancy can put me in a mighty uproar
when we fool around. But a gentleman doesn't
take advantage of the girl he means to wed. Here,
I forgot to show you what else she sent me-was
Gideon was still staring at the daguerreotype.
"Gideon?"
He snapped the case shut and handed it back.
Rodney laid it on the blanket, then unfolded
the red bunting Gideon had noticed earlier. It
turned out to be a Stars and Bars, though of a style
he hadn't seen before. On the blue canton, a
single large white star was centered in a circle of
ten smaller ones.
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"Sewed it herself," Rodney declared. "It's the
newest design. They call the big one the
Virginia star."
He raised the banner by its upper corners.
"Measures fifteen by fifteen exactly. Just
half the size of a regular cavalry flag. I can
carry it under my shirt in battle." With the toe of his
boot he nudged the rubber blanket sticking out beneath
the cot c less-than Sure don't know how I can
carry the rest."
"I have a notion about how you can get rid of the things you
don't want"
"For God's sake tell me."
"Do you play euchre?"
Rodney's face fell. "'Fraid not I'm not
one of those who considers euchre a gentleman's
game."
"Do you think you could lower yourself to the level of us common
folk for one night?"
"You're makin" sport of me, Gideon."
"I'm sorry. I'm trying to say the solution to your
problem is Jack Harris."
"What can that dirty-talkin' horse breeder do for
me?"
"Careful. You're speaking of the lieutenant we know,
love and elected."
"I didn't elect him. I voted for Hanks."
"Harris is still your answer. Tell him you
want to learn euchre."
"I hear he cheats."
"All the better. Join one of his games. For your
stake, put up whatever you want to shed-and in three
or four hours Jack will have you traveling light
again."
"Well-was Rodney looked dubious. "Guess
I could be civil to him for that short a time-was An
emphatic nod. "All right, I'll give it a
go. It's either that or die of the heart failure
tryin' to lug this stuff in the field. I might as
well go see Jack right now-was
"No, not tonight"
"Why the devil not?"
462With Jeb Stuart
"We have one more subject to discuss."
Gideon sank down on an empty cot across from his
friend's. He rubbed his temples, finally managing
to banish thoughts of Margaret:
"It's pretty hard for me to talk to you as a friend one
minute and an officer the next. I'm no more
experienced as a soldier than you."
"No," Rodney admitted, "you're just more popular
at election time. I don't hold that against you."
"Believe me when I say you're only
hurting yourself if you refuse to follow orders."
"Gideon, it goes against my grain!"
"But you'll never get that flag into battle-or turn
up those souvenirs Miss Nancy wants-unless you
change your ways. I imagine your girl's proud
of you-was
Rodney pointed to the letter. "That's what she says."
"And you want her to stay proud?"
He thought it over. "Reckon so."
"Then you don't want to end up in Company Q.
Or be mustered out as unfit. So bend a little!"
"You askin' me? Or tellin'?"
Earnestly, Gideon gazed across the lamp-lit
tent "Asking. As your friend."
Rodney Arbuckle III reflected en that a
while, too. Then he shrugged again:
"Well, maybe you're right. Nancy would be shamed
if I didn't comport myself properly. My mama
and papa would be shamed. Even the house niggers would be
shamed, I "magjne."
Gideon doubted the last, but said nothing.
"I'll make you a bargain."
Encouraged, Gideon leaned forward.
Rodney picked up the letter. "Nancy gets
mighty sentimental in here. I won't read
you the exact words. But she says if anything should ever
happen to me-you know. A wound-was
The Titansbledfc
The word death crept into Gideon's mind. He
suspected it was in Rodney's, too.
"Go on," he said.
"If anything like that did happen, I'd want her
to have the flag and any souvenirs I turn up.
She'd also want to know whether I fought well. Could
I ask you to tell her?"
"Of course."
"She'd appreciate it. So would I."
"You can count on me-if anything happens." He
smiled. "Which is unlikely, provided you learn the
lessons old Jeb's trying to teach."
"Old!" Rodney snorted. "He's not five
years older'n me, I'll wager."
"But he's experienced." Gideon rose and put
an arm across his friend's shoulder. "Trust that experience
and you'll come through just fine. We all will. It's just like
Stuart says-we have to out-fight the Yanks because we
don't outnumber them. We can't do it unless we
pull together."
A truculent expression crossed Rodney's
face. "I hope nobody's got the
idea I'm scared to fight."
"No. But you'll never get the opportunity if you
keep disobeying orders. Let's consider the bargain
sealed. In the unlikely event you get your big
toe shot off or a Minie ball in your
backside, I'll get the flag and the souvenirs
to Miss Wonderly. I will, that is, provided you
put on your uniform and go stand watch."
Rodney stared at the eleven-star flag draped over
his palms. Let out one more long sigh.
'Tair enough."
He laid the flag on the cot, then pulled on his
sweat- stained coat. Before he buttoned it, he
folded the flag and slipped it inside against his
belly. As he started out, Gideon said:
"Do me one more favor."
"What?"
464With Jeb Stuart
"Send Isom home. Tomorrow. You'll be a better
soldier."
"Really think so?"
"I do."
"All right." He bent to leave, then hesitated
again. "Y'know, Gideon, I shouldn't tell you this.
But I think you're gonna make a damn
fine officer. I'd hate your damn guts if we
weren't friends."
He waved, smiled and left
Gideon relaxed and allowed himself a weary smile.
He'd won a small victory. Out of such small
victories might emerge a cavalry regiment
worthy of the name.
He noticed the presentation box again. He looked
at it for nearly half a minute. Then he went out
into the darkness, no longer smiling.
Just after dawn the next day, Gideon was yawning
over a bitter cup of coffee at the cook fire in
front of his tent. He glanced up to see Isom
standing a couple of feet away. The graying Negro
carried a maple branch with a bandana-wrapped
bundle tied to one end.
"Good morning, Isom."
"Morning, sir. Master Rodney-he sending me
home today."
Gideon nestled his tin cup at the edge of the coals
so the contents would stay warm. He stood up;
stretched. The morning air was fragrant and full of
sound: men complaining as they turned out of their tents; the
whicker of a horse; the tang of woodsmoke and
droppings.
"I know. I suggested it. You'll be safer there."
The black nodded sadly. "I 'spose."
"Did Rodney write you a pass so you won't be
stopped and locked up as a runaway?"
The Titansbledfe
Isom patted the bundle. "Got it right here. I
reckon I'll walk on down to Piedmont and
catch the Gap Railroad. I wanted to ask you
somethin" first, though." "Anything, Isom."
The older man's eyes locked with his. "I know you
his beside' friend. He thinks a mighty lot of you-even
though you wearin' that officer's sash now. I want you
to look after him, please, sir. I love that boy.
Been with him since the hour his mama birthed him,"
"I'll do everything I can, Isom." "Thank you,
sir. That's welcome news." The black man
shook his head. "Wish this whole scrape was over.
I feel plumb sorry for them Yanks."
Gideon misunderstood: "I don't blame you.
We're going to lick "em hands down."
"Hope so. I'm gettin" too old to be turned
out in the world with no family to look after-and none
to look after me. I sure wish everybody'd quit
fightin' over us niggers."
"Isom, that's not the issue. It's our right
to independence, to-was
Again Isom shook his head. Gideon frowned:
"What is the issue in your opinion?" "I don't
mean to show no disrespect, Lieutenant. But this war
is about the niggers and what to do with "em. I can read,
sir. The Arbuckles, they good people. They never had that
fool notion that a nigger who can read is a dangerous
nigger-was Gideon caught a touch of resentment in the
words.
"So I know folks up north-old
IJ-NKURN-THEY gonna set us all free if they
win, Then it's gonna be
worse."
"Why do you say that?"
""Cause I don't think those Yanks know what
they're doin'. Sure, things are bad for some of my
people who got masters that ain't decent like the
Arbuckles. But it won't improve things none if
all the niggers are turned
466With Jeb Stuart
loose overnight-free an' equal like it say in that
Declaration old President Jefferson wrote.
Deep down, I don't b'lieve most of the
Yanks really want us free. They just want
to punish the South. The Yanks won't know
what to do with us if we are free-I don't think
they'll even want us around. It's a bad war,
sir, a bad war. It's goin' places nobody
ever dreamed."
Gideon said nothing. The Negro shrugged in a
self- conscious way:
"Guess I'm talkin' out of turn. Didn't
mean to. Mostly I just wanted to ask you to look out
for Master Rodney."
"I will, I promise. I wish you a safe
journey, Isom."
"Yes, sir. Thank you. An' you take care of
yourself, too."
He turned and walked away with a slow, tired step.
Gideon stared after him until he was lost in the
blue smoke and the confusion of men stumbling out of their
tents.
Isom could be right. Those windy, hate-filled
abolitionists would never welcome poor black people
into their elegant parlors if the South lost-
Hell, what a ridiculous speculation! They
weren't going to lose. They were going to win.
With men like Stuart leading, they couldn't fail.
iv
The hot weather intensified, and with it, the
training. But not in camp. The First Virginia spent
more and more time on patrol, ranging north toward the
Potomac. Gideon kept learning.
He learned how to sleep in the saddle while jogging
over some unfamiliar back road. Sleep was an
irritant to Jeb Stuart He needed next to none
himself and failed to understand why other men did.
The Titansbledfg
Gideon learned how to prepare a quick meal at a
woodland campfire. How to grab his ration of flour;
wet it in a handy stream or with water from his canteen;
season it if there happened to be a paper twist of
salt in his sabretache; fry the putty-like mass in
bacon fat and wolf it as bread before jumping into the
saddle again.
He learned how to endure.
They rode in fair weather, out before dawn and continuing
until long after moonrise. They rode in
thunderstorms and the humid aftermath, gradually perfecting
then ability to travel in a column of fours-the
best way to move masses of mounted men rapidly
along a road.
No matter how long the hours or unpleasant the
weather, Stuart and his staff always seemed jaunty.
Perhaps it was because the commander usually sang in the
saddle. Depending on the position of I Company,
Gideon could sometimes catch the sound of Stuart's
fine, resounding voice tossing "Alabama Gals"
to the summer wind. Or, Sundays, "Rock of
Ages," Stuart permitted no secular songs on
the Sabbath.
Gradually, too, Gideon gained an understanding of
why Stuart drove himself and his men so hard. He
believed in the cause, of course. But he was goaded
by something more personal: a desire to match the
reputation of his father-in-law, Colonel Philip
St. George Cooke.
Cooke had been commandant of the Second U.s.
Dragoons when Stuart had courted and married his
daughter Flora out at Fort Leavenworth. But
Cooke had remained with the Union-and fancied himself
an expert in the relatively new area of
cavalry tactics.
"You see, gentlemen," Stuart explained one
drizzly night in late June when H, I and
J Companies halted briefly during a
cross-country ride, "until about seven years
ago there was no such animal as a cavalryman.
"In the Federal service we had the
dragoons-big,
468With Jeb Stuart
beefy fellows packing muskets and sabers for
fighting on horseback or on foot. We had the
mounted rifles- which is where I got my start, in
Texas, after coming out of fhe Point. Mounted
riflemen are nothing more than infantry on
horseback. The animals are mere transportation
to get the men to and from the battlefield.
"It was President Davis who figured out that
maybe there should be a new type of horse soldier.
A man who could fight on horseback most of the
time. That's why Davis organized the First and
Second Cavalry when he was Secretary of War
for President Pierce. His idea was radical but
sound. In seven years it's become clear that
cavalry can fulfill one function better than
any other branch of service. Moving fast,
cavalrymen are the eyes of an army."
He grinned at the soaked men gathered around him.
"There's something I like even better. When
reinforcements are needed, the cavalry can get to a
fire fight faster comthan anybody else.
Well-was He tugged out a pocket watch.
"We've spent twenty minutes resting and
palavering. That's ten too many. But I
wanted to present a little explanation of our purpose
for the benefit of you gentlemen-was His glance singled out
several troopers, including Rodney.
"Especially you gentlemen who insist on
explanations along with your orders. All right-stand
to horse! Let's see whether any Yank
pickets have stuck their noses over the river."
Gideon had never imagined his body could withstand so much
physical punishment He discovered he had almost
limitless strength when it was demanded-and Stuart demanded
it often, from all the men who rode with him across the
upper Shenandoah, hunting for signs of an enemy
invasion.
The First Virginia rode with a growing certainty that
their state would be the chief theater of war. True,
fighting had erupted way out in Missouri, which the
The Titansbledfi
Confederacy had hoped to claim. To counteract the
maneuvering of a secession-minded governor,
Congressman Blair-a younger jnember of the powerful
Maryland clan-had helped an Army captain named
Lvon organize the Missouri Home Guards and
secure the city of St. Louis. Promoted
to brigadier, Lyon had then defeated an enemy
force at a place called
Boonville-all but guaranteeing Missouri's
presence in the Union.
There were equally ominous developments closer at
hand-in Virginia's western counties, where the
farmers and mountain folk had never taken to slavery.
Troops from both sides were moving into the area, and there
was a plan afoot to set up a new government at
Wheeling. The damned traitors'in that part of the state
were actually talking of seceding.from the South!
Talking of establishing a separate state,
possibly called Kanawha. Naturally the
devious Mr. Lincoln didn't object The new
state would be on his side.
The First Virginia often covered thirty-five or
forty miles a day. Side roads; forest trails;
open fields. Despite the grueling pace, the men
thrived. Their legs strengthened. Their butts
hardened. Their pride grew right along with their
muscles.
Gideon accustomed himself to getting by with very little
sleep. Even when he did catch a few winks,
he heard commands in his dreams-
Prepare to mount.
Mount!
DRAW SABERS!
And he was pleased to see that although Rodney still huffed
and complained about the discipline, he'd finally
surrendered to it, and was earning marks as a good
trooper. Even Captain Macomb had survived
the threat of removal.
On Sunday, the thirtieth of June, they were back
at the Bunker Hill encampment The next night,
after
470With Jeb Stuart
seeing to the sentries, Gideon retired to his tent
to open a letter delivered at evening mail call.
His body throbbed. They'd been in the saddle almost
four days. He was growing increasingly impatient
to test himself under fire. Stuart's spirit was catching.
With a groan, he lay down on his cot. He had the
tent to himself. Jack Harris had opted for euchre
with the enlisted men. Curiously) his victims seemed
to enjoy being beaten. Respect had an almost endless
array of sources among Southerners, Gideon had
decided. Rodney was still much admired because he'd
dared to ride out and ask Beauty Stuart a question.
Wiping perspiration from his forehead, Gideon studied
the envelope. The return address-a street in
Richmond comwas unfamiliar. But the handwriting was
clearly his mother's. He ripped the letter
open.
My dearest son:
I trust this finds you well and in good spirits. As you
must have judged from the envelope, we have returned to the
capital, leaving Jeremiah in Lexington with
Grandfather Virgil-who, I might note, is in a
state of outrage. Quartermaster officers for the War
Department purchased (his word is stole) all of his
remaining horses. Further, he was paid an
outrageously low price for each. So guard well
that fine mount he gave you. You will guess why we are
in Richmond. Edward has taken a position as a
copyist-clerk in the Treasury Department. He was
welcomed for his patriotic spirit-not to mention his
willingness to accept a pittance in wages! The
Department makes good use of your stepfather's fine,
clear handwriting. He transcribes many
important documents and memoranda. His office is
one floor below that of the President, in what was
formerly the Federal Customs House. Everyone is
generally in
The Titansbledga
support of the President, and admiration is
universal for his lovely and intelligent spouse,
Mrs. Var-, ina Howell Davis. Still,
we hear occasional grumblings. They say Mr.
Davis insists on taking all the principal
decisions, civil as well as military, upon himself;
that he considers anyone who dares disagree with him an
enemy; and that his condition- nervous dyspepsia, which I
understand he has suffered for some years-continually
aggravates tensions within the government. Yet hope
is high. People are confident "Old Bory" is more
than a match for his pedestrian West Point
classmate, McDowell. Despite Mr.
Greeley's shrill incantations, everyone is
certain McDowell will never come "forward
to Richmond!" Our physical circumstances are not
the best. Because of Edward's low wages, we have been
forced to take a small and rather drab flat. But I
am resolved to sacrifice, just as so many others are
doing, and would not for a moment question Edward's wish
to serve. I wilt say his clerkship in the
Treasury has made him a positive maniac
on the subject of finance. He talks of nothing but
the South's need for huge sums to carry a
potentially long war to a successful conclusion. He
works long hours. Perhaps fatigue is the explanation
for a curious incident which took place just the other day
on Main Street.
After church, we encountered an old acquaintance from
Washington, Mr. Cheever.
Gideon frowned. Where had he heard that name? He
couldn't recall.
But he neither acknowledged Edward, nor was acknowledged
by him. When I mentioned it later, Edward grew quite
sharp and refused to discuss it.
472With Jeb Stuart
I take his behavior as a sign of the mounting strain
upon those striving to blend conflicting personalities and
urgent priorities into a cohesive and well-
run government.
Cheever, Gideon thought again. Where-his
He remembered. He'd heard the name at the
National. His father had mentioned someone named Cheever
being in Baltimore; being involved in that imaginary
murder plot. Edward had admitted knowing Cheever
while denying everything else.
Why the peculiar turnabout in Richmond? The
unanswered question left Gideon puzzled and a bit
uneasy.
I must end this, my dear son, and see to preparing some
supper for Edward. It is well after nine in the
evening, but he is not yet home. We are all
earnestly praying the Valley-including
Lexington-will not become a battleground-
A vain hope, Gideon decided. The Federal and
Confederate strategies were emerging on parallel
courses: two armies confronting one another in
eastern Virginia; two more in the Shenandoah. It
remained in doubt as to which area would see the first heavy
fighting. Camp speculation said eastern Virginia.
comand every night T ask the Almighty to give us a
swift victory so that younger boys like your brother
Jeremiah will never need to experience the perils of
military service.
Of Matthew we have heard little. He, like you, is not a
frequent correspondent. But that is understandable
given your ages and your devotion to what you are doing.
Matthew's last brief letter said he was attempting
to find a berth on some vessel in our Navy.
Whether he will succeed, I cannot
The Titansbledgc
say. I know I cannot stop him, regardless of my
reservations or fears.
Gideon, we think constantly of your welfare. I
have often wished that I knew the full name and address
of your young lady-
His eyes grew somber.
coms that I might call on her and make
myself known. But the two letters we have received from you made
no mention of her. Is something amiss? Must close
now. Write to me when you can. I am glad you are with
"Beauty" Stuart, of whom many admirable things are
said. But I implore God to keep you safe from
harm. Please write.
Your loving Mother
Slowly, Gideon refolded the sheets, more upset
than comforted by all Fan had written.
There was that odd incident with Cheever. And the even more
unsettling reference to Margaret-
He must set his mother straight about Margaret. Tell
her in his next letter that the relationship was ended. In
fact, he might as well write tonight. He had
time.
He began to search under his cot for the pencil and
precious sheets of foolscap he'd borrowed from
Rodney. He'd barely gotten them out when the
sounds outside intensified.
There was always noise in the camp. Men wandering about
restlessly; singing; joking. But now it was interrupted
by distant bugles and drum rolls. Then he heard
horses. Perhaps some of Turner Ashby's
Rangers. Ashby, the son of a prominent Valley
family, had refused to serve under Stuart
and insisted on a cavalry com
474With Jeb Stuart
mand of his own. Gideon knew of only a few First
Virginia patrols on the move tonight
He laid the writing materials aside and started
for the tent entrance. Jack Harris burst in,
strewing frayed playing cards behind him.
He flung the rest of the deck over his head. The
cards came drifting down as Harris grabbed
Gideon and hugged him:
"It's happened! It's happened!"
"For God's sake, Jack, what are you talking
about?"
"Some of our scouts just galloped in. That old
fucker Patterson's over the Potomac."
"For sure?"
"Yessir. He started crossing at
Williamsport at four this morning."
"How many Yanks?"
"Fifteen, twenty thousand."
"My God."
"We're gonna see some action at last. Cap'n
Macomb says the regiment will be movin' out quick. With
Jackson and an infantry brigade."
Gideon let out a whoop, seized Jack
Harris' waist and then his right hand. He waltzed
Harris around the card-littered tent, both of them
yelping and barking at the top of their lungs. All
thought of Fan's letter was gone from her son's mind.
CHAPTER VI
"The Ball Is Open"
THE JULY THUNDERSTORM blazed and boomed above the
woodland. The shimmering lightning dimmed all too
soon, leaving Gideon as hopelessly lost as he'd
been for the-last hour.
He was soaked and bone-weary. His campaign hat
did little to keep the rain out of his eyes. He ran a
hand along Dancer's neck as the stallion shied from
ruts and rain pools in the road that was rapidly
becoming a morass.
At the next lightning flash, he reined in. He
tried to decide whether it would be wiser to follow the
road-it ran westward, he thought-or to leave it
Neither alternative seemed very attractive. The
road might take a turn in the wrong direction.
The woods might stretch on for miles, and he could
wander the rest of the night without locating the men of I
Company he'd been leading on patrol a few
miles southwest of Shepherdstown.
Rain poured over Gideon and his horse.
Lord, it seemed like a century since that evening a
week ago when Jack Harris had brought the news
of the invasion. The very next day, near the little hamlet
of Falling Waters, up river from Harper's
Ferry, he'd gotten his initial taste of
battle-
Stuart's cavalry had been out with Old Jack.
The colonel had three hundred and eighty
infantrymen and a single battery. Jackson took
the brunt of an attack by

4768The Ball Is Open"
musket-aimed men in blue. From the cavalry's
position on Jackson's flank, Gideon heard
a sound foreign to him before-cannon fired in combat
Old Jack's artilleryman was a former preacher
named Pendleton. He'd christened his four pieces
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. One of those
iron apostles helped hold a road open while
Jackson's men retreated in front of
blue-clad hordes who fired, reloaded, kept
firing, kept coming on-
Stuart fretted on the flank with his troopers,
waiting to be put to use. Gideon would never forget
the scene- especially the moment when he saw
a Union soldier fall in the sunlight on the
road, hit by a shot from the retreating Confederates.
He'd never seen a man die in battle before.
A bit later he'd heard another new sound-the
screaming of the wounded.
All the while, the apostolic cannon kept
crumphing. Smoke billowed across the countryside,
obscuring the Yank companies on the road. Finally
Stuart's patience gave out. He ordered his
troopers into action with a shout-"Fours ahead! Get
up!" It was a principle with Stuart that cavalry
always galloped at the enemy, but trotted away; a
gallop was a gait unbecoming to a mounted man
unless he was going toward his foe.
The troopers swept down on the Yanks.
Inevitably, the terrain forced a breakup of the
precise formations. Captain Macomb led I
Company into a stand of maples where he'd spotted a
few moving patches of blue he assumed to be
infantrymen. The company galloped into the grove with
sabers drawn and side arms ready.
In the dapple of sun and shadow, the leading riders
came on the enemy. A dozen Yanks. Not on
foot. Mounted.
The Northern cavalrymen let go with their
muskets. Gideon ducked, catching another sound
completely new
The Titansbledgg
to him: the odd, terrifying whine of a Minig ball
passing close by.
Horse to hone and saber to saber, he clashed with a young
officer in blue. He was so hard by the Yank, he
could see the pupils of the officer's gray eyes, and a
yellow down on his chin. The officer was even younger
than Gideon.
A lucky saber stroke slashed the officer's
wrist. He cried out; fell from his horse. Jack
Harris rode up and finished him with a pistol ball
Gideon would never forget the astonished look on the
officer's face-or the abrupt blackness in his
gray eyes as the ragged black hole in his throat
spouted blood.
The clash in the grove lasted no more than three
minutes. The outnumbered Yanks scattered, leaving
four dead in the shifting shadows of the maples.
Captain Macomb lay dead, too, killed by a
saber through the beHy.
Harm assumed command and reassembled the company. He
refused to let anyone stop for Macomb's body.
Riding out of the grove, Gideon was more
stunned than elated. It had all happened so
quickly. Including the dying.
For the rest of the day, the cavalry screened the retreat
of Jackson's brigade. By sundown, Gideon
had taken part in several more charges, and gone through an
almost unconscious transition. The sudden roar of
cannon no longer startled him. He was proud of the
way he'd adapted to the racket and disorder of
battle.
But he couldn't get the memory of that first young
officer's glazing gray eyes out of Jus mind.
Scattered companies of the cavalry fell back in
the darkness past the outpost camp Jackson had
abandoned to the Federals. Gradually, the regiment
reassembled. Stuart was jubilant. He led the men
in chorus after cho-
4788The Ball Is Open"
rus of "The Bonnie Blue Flag,"
accompanied by the First Virginia's fifers and
drummers.
At first Gideon sang with less than full
enthusiasm. Soon, though, he was bellowing. Singing
had a tonic effect. It helped erase the
memory of the gray-eyed Yank.
The regiment had fared well. There were no
losses except for Macomb. That same night,
Harris was brevetted to captain and Gideon to first
lieutenant. The vacant post of second
lieutenant was filled by a quick election. A
sergeant named Sunderlind was elevated to the rank.
Sunderlind was a foolishly cheerful young man
Gideon considered brainless. After the election, he
and Harris met privately and agreed to ignore the
feather- headed farm boy as much as possible.
Falling Waters was scarcely a victory-or even
worthy of being called a battle. But the high command
was impressed with the mettle of the officers during the
engagement. Johnston recommended Old Jack for
promotion to brigadier and Stuart to full colonel.
Gideon learned later that the day had been a
personal triumph for the commander of the First Virginia.
Riding alone, he'd encountered a Union company in
a field. The Yanks mistook the man in the
blue greatcoat for one of their own.
Stuart immediately demanded that the company surrender. He
told an effective lie: they were covered by snipers
in some nearby trees and would all be massacred if
they refused to throw down their arms. Forty- nine
shamed men of the 15th Pennsylvania Volunteers
were now prisoners thanks to Stuart's
audacity.
Other stories emerged from the day's fighting. Men in
one of the newer companies described how Stuart had
led them within range of an enemy artillery piece.
He halted the green riders until the camion
fired. The round shot roared over the heads of the
petrified troop
The Titansbledgi
ers. One of them told Gideon exactly what the
commander had said:
"There. I wanted you to learn what a cannon's like.
I wanted you to hear it. They fired high. They always
do. There's no harm in them."
In the days immediately after the Falling Waters fight,
the regiment probed toward the Potomac-and
Patterson's camp at Martinsburg. Small
units patrolled every road by which the Yankees might
advance. Occasionally the Confederate troopers saw
blue-coated infantry scouts or horsemen.
Occasionally fire was exchanged, but with little effect.
Gideon lived in the saddle as the cavalry ranged
across a fifty-mile front from Leesburg
to Shepherdstown, watching. Riders raced back
to Winchester at the slightest sign of a Union
movement-
Tonight, just as darkness fell, half of I Company under
Gideon's command had encountered an equal number of
Federal riders. There was another running skirmish;
another inconclusive exchange of fire as the
thunderstorm broke. The rain hampered vision.
Gideon saw one of his corporals nicked in the
arm, but he failed to see a low-hanging'branch. It
slammed his forehead, flung him out of the saddle and
left him floundering.
The rest of his men thundered away in the rain, not even
aware of his accident. Despite his dazed condition,
he had the presence of mind to whistle three times.
Dancer had been trained to recognize the signal.
The stallion came trotting back.
Dizzy and sick at his stomach, Gideon struggled
to his knees. He caught the reins and wrapped them
around his right hand. Then he passed out
He woke a short time later. His teeth were
chattering. The rain beat on his face. He smelled
Dancer in the dark. The reins were still wrapped around his
fingers.
But he'd lost his command. So here he was an hour
later, halted in another wood.
4808The Ball Is Open"
Thunder rumbled down the sky. Wind lashed the
leaves. He'd just about decided to cut left, away
from the road, when he saw a glimmer of light ahead
and to the right.
The light was no more than a quarter of a mile away.
A cabin? Cabins were usually located near
croplands. Maybe he was closer to the edge of the
wood than he imagined.
Wouldn't hurt to stop, he thought Dry off. Ask
directions.
"Come on, boy." He nudged Dancer.
Reluctantly the stallion started along the
treacherous track.
During a lull in the thunder, Gideon caught
another sound. Horses.
And more than one.
They were up by the cabin, whickering in the downpour.
He wiped water from his eyes. He teeth started
to chatter again. He shifted his weight a little to free
the saber on his left hip, then ran his right hand down
over the laces of the oilskin sheath hanging from the
saddle. The sheath kept the 30-gauge Paterson
shotgun dry and ready to fire.
The horses could belong to the cabin's owners. Or
even to a couple of his own men. But he advanced
cautiously in case he was wrong on both
counts.
Dancer's hoofs splashed in puddles of water.
Gideon reined him to the left; the shoulder. Muddy,
but less noisy. He rode another few yards,
then stopped again, listening and watching.
A fresh gust of wind set nearby tree branches
clattering. He clenched his teeth to stop their
clicking. The anticipated lightning flash finally
lit the heavens, showing him what he wanted to see.
The building ahead wasn't a log cabin but a
somewhat more substantial plank cottage. Two
big horses
The Titansbledha
were tied to a low-hanging branch of a tree growing between
the cottage and the road.
Darkness again. Thunder boomed. He waited for more
lightning. When it came, he was ready. He
concentrated on the saddles of the tethered animals.
He recognized the design instantly. Also the
wood stirrups with leather hoods. The saddles were
McClellans-of which there were precious few in his
regiment, just as there were precious few black
horses, even though the Northern press continually
referred to Virginia's ferocious "black horse
cavalry."
After an inspection trip of European military
establishments some years ago, the Union officer
now taking charge in western Virginia had
recommended that particular type of saddle for the
Federal army. His name had been miked to it.
Gideon reckoned the odds were about ninety to ten against
the owners of the horses being friendly.
He pondered. Capturing a couple of Yanks was
a tempting proposition-
No, the attempt would be foolish. There were only
two of them; the prize wasn't worth the risk.
He'd be wiser to pass by and hunt for his own men.
He was about to turn Dancer ninety degrees to the
left, into the trees, when a woman screamed inside
the cottage.
ii
The piercing scream canceled any idea of leaving.
He dismounted. Rubbed Dancer's muzzle to quiet
him. Looped the reins and tied them loosely around a
low- hanging limb.
He unlaced the oilskin sheath. Slid out the
revolving- cylindef shotgun. Shielding the
mechanism under his left arm, he stole onto the
road.
4828The Ball Is Open"
The woman shrieked again. Gideon thought he heard
a man laugh. He quickened his step. Complete
silence was impossible because of the mud and the puddles. But
he was reasonably sure the hiss of the rain would
cover the sound of his approach.
He couldn't see what was happening in the cottage.
Burlap curtains hung inside the oil-paper
windows. The tied horses stamped as he crept
across the yard, doubled over to protect his weapon from the
slash of the storm.
He heard the woman moan; then sounds of struggle.
He pressed himself against the warped planks just to the
side of the door. Inside, a man growled:
"Lie still, goddamn you. Else Frank's liable
to open your skull with that there hogleg."
The man laughed again. He was breathing hard:
"I said lay stilll This yere's secesh country, and
you're a secesh gal, so you might as well give
up an' swallow your medicine."
A second voice, somewhat higher: "Watch her
hand, Saas!"
Perhaps the woman struck or scratched. Silas
yelled, "Goddamn bitch!" A heavy blow landed.
The woman cried out.
There were more grunts of effort. More
profanity. A sound of doth ripping-
"There. Now we got your ass bare, you're gonna
take some punishment."
"Christ, Silas," the other man protested. "That
ain't no way to take a woman."
"She ain't a woman, she's a fuckin' rebel
whore. She damn near tore my eye out to boot!
You want her the regular way, you can have her when
I'm done. I'm gonna hurt you, woman. I'm
gonna make you mighty sorry you clawed me like you
did-was
Another powerful grant; another scream. Gideon
stepped in front of the door, kicked it open and
jumped into the lamplit room.
r
The Titansbledhc
"Silas, look owf!" The younger Yank's cap
fell off as he spun toward the door, caught with his
revolver dangling at his side.
Details of the scene registered in an instant The
men were on Gideon's right, in front of a low,
rope-spring bed placed against the wall. The woman
lay face down on the bed. Her butternut skirt
was hiked above her hips. Tom cotton
pantaloons hung around her calves.
The bigger man-bearded; perhaps thirty-had one knee
on the bed. His other boot-was braced on the
floor. The man's trousers and drawers had fallen
below his knees. He held his stiffened organ in his
right hand.
A plank table stood between Gideon and the soldiers.
He booted the near edge as young Frank leveled the
revolver. The table skidded into the Yank's thighs,
ruining his aim. Gideon ducked a second before the
revolver went off.
The ball struck the wall behind him. Before Frank
could aim and fire again, Gideon pulled the trigger
of his 30-gauge, aiming high so as not to hit the
woman. Thunder blended with the boom of the gun.
The shot spread, striking the back of the bearded
soldier's head and the wall beyond. Little geysers of
blood erupted from the man's hair. He fell
forward across the writhing Woman, who began to scream
hysterically. Blood ran down the soldier's cheek
onto her neck.
Frank didn't try a second shot. He
raised his hands:
"Don't shoot me, Reb. Jesus, don't! This
weren't my idea-was
It was a trick. While Qideon
hesitated, the young soldier lunged for the table.
Overturned it in Gideon's direction.
Gideon leaped back. But not far enough. The table
banged his leg painfully. Frank bolted past and
dashed outside.
By the time Gideon reached the door, the young soldier
had untied both horses, mounted one and started
4848The Ball Is Operf'
out of the yard. Gideon knelt, jammed the stock
against his shoulder and fired.
His aim was poor. The soldier galloped away,
unhurt The riderless horse followed the first into the
dark.
Gideon was shaking with rage. He took a minute
to gain control. He staggered to his feet, stepped
away from the open door and laid the shotgun on the
floor.
The woman sobbed and struggled under the dead man.
Gideon walked to the bed, his boots squishing.
Vomit rose in his throat at the sight of the
Yank's head.
The woman screamed again, unable to free herself from the
weight of the corpse. Blood slopped down over
her throat, her shoulder-
Gagging, Gideon dug his hands into the
Union soldier's armpits; heaved upward. His
speech was wheezy:
"I'm with-Colonel Stuart's cavalry,"
ma'am. I'll get him outside-was
The dead man's head lolled. The woman rolled
over, saw the corpse. She covered her mouth and
buried her face in the gory blanket. Modesty
was forgotten. Her bare buttocks were still in plain
sight. Her body was thin; bony. The body of a
woman worn by working the land.
Gideon was thankful for the bracing feel of the rain as
he hauled the dead man through the yard. He dragged
him to the corner of the cottage, then about a half
dozen yards into the brush. He let the body fall
as lightning burst. He whirled away so as not to see
the corpse.
I killed him.
I killed a man.
His hands were shaking.
Back at the cottage door, he braced himself
against the frame, staring straight ahead to the dark
mud-brick hearth. He didn't want to go in and
embarrass the woman, whom he heard stirring on the
bed.
"Ma'am?"
Her voice was faint: "What is it?"
The Titansbledhe
"My horse is tied down the road a piece.
Ill gp fetch him so you'll have time to-to fix
up."
"All right" She sounded a little less shaky.
He trudged back to Dancer, wondering why he
felt no pride in having killed an enemy
soldier-and one bent on rape at that. The image
of the man's bloody head lingered in his mind, lapped
by a second one- the wide gray eyes of the young
officer.
As he led Dancer into the cottage yard, the woman
appeared in silhouette in the doorway. She
brushed at her straggly hair.
"You'll find a shed "round to the side. You can put
the horse in there if you want. There's some old
straw-was
"Thanks."
His teeth started to. chatter again. He unsaddled
Dancer, and pushed him into the shed. The stallion
resented the unfamiliar surroundings; kicked hard
at the door as Gideon dropped the outside bar
into its bracket. Two more sharp kicks and the
stallion settled down.
Gideon walked around to the front. He spotted his
campaign hat lying in the mud. He hadn't even
felt it fall off.
He approached the door but didn't enter. He
heard the woman righting the overturned table. He
knocked.
"You can come in," the woman said. "I'm fine now."
"Much obliged."
He stepped into the light, easing the door shut. The
rain's roar became a quiet rush.
The woman bent to pick up a stool. As she
straightened, Gideon noticed she'd wiped the
blood from her neck and thrown the blanket and the ragged
remains of her pantaloons in a corner. The
stains on the shoulder of her blouse were drying.
She set the stool beside the table. Gave another push
to the untidy hair hanging over the right side of her
face.
4868The Ball Is Open"
She tried to smile. Crossed her arms.
Uncrossed them. To ease the tension, Gideon said:
"I got separated from my unit. I was coming along
the road when I heard you yell."
"They-was Her shiver left no doubt about who she
meant "comthey were lost too. They barged in
about ten minutes before you got here. At first they
pretended to be courteous." Her mouth wrenched. "I
thought all they wanted was food."
Though she was nervous, she still showed admirable
composure considering what she'd been through. Her hand
jerked toward the stool. "Won't you sit down a
moment, Mister-?"
"Kent Lieutenant Gideon Kent First
Virginia Cavalry."
"Stuart's cavalry, you said. Ours-was
"Yes, ma'am."
He retrieved the shotgun, leaned it against the
wall, then sat down on the stool. He felt
exhausted; and soiled, somehow. He had no desire
to bellow a patriotic song to celebrate the death
of the bearded man. He was surprised and a little
guilty over his lack of enthusiasm.
"I suppose I should have been better prepared for
visitors," the woman said with weary humor.
"I've seen Yanks all over the county roads for
days."
"I can't imagine they're all as mean as those
two."
"I wonder. Oh-my name's Cullen. Mrs.
Ida Cul- len."
He judged her to be about thirty. Her face had a
certain pale prettiness; an echo of prettiness,
rather. Hard labor had wasted her figure and carved
hollows in her cheeks. Her full mouth and hazel
eyes were her most attractive features.
As Mrs. Cullen moved toward a crudely
built cabinet beyond the hearth, he said:
"It's a pity your husband wasn't here when the
Yanks showed up."
The Titansbledhg
She opened the cabinet. "I've some gooseberry
wine left. It's not very good. But it might warm you
up."
"Thank you, I'll have some."
Each word was an effort. He was chilled to the bone.
He rubbed his cheeks but it didn't help.
Mrs. Cullen set an earthenware jar and a cracked
cup in front of him.
He poured half a cup of wine. As she'd
predicted, it was thin and sour. But it helped ease
his chill.
"Is Mr. Cullen serving with the army?"
She shook her head. She pulled a shawl from a
peg, draped it around her shoulders and took some
kindling from a box. She scraped a match.
It fouled the air with sulphur fumes.
With her back turned, she lit the kindling. "I
buried my husband in February. His heart just
quit one night when he sat down for supper. He
was sixteen years older than I am. He did
too much hard work in bad weather. He owned thirty
acres of this timber. Cutting and hauling it
to Shepherdstown was too big a chore for a man his
age."
Gideon set the cup on the table. "You shouldn't be
staying here alone. You said it yourself-there are Yank
patrols all over the place."
"But I don't have anyplace to go, Lieutenant."
She found another cup for herself; poured. "My kin
are all dead. My husband was my only-well, you
understand."
She drank. The rain drummed on the shake roof.
There was a leak above the antique cookstove. A
drop of water plopped on the iron every few
seconds.
"Then if I might make a suggestion-was
The hazel eyes met his over the rim of her cup.
"Yes?"
"You'd be safer in Winchester or further down the
Valley. I could take you with me when I
go."
"Behind the lines?"
4888The Ball Is Open"
He nodded, adding silently, Wherever they are at the
moment. There was no point in telling her that even as
they sat talking, an advance from Martinsburg could be
in progress, cutting them off.
"I should be on my way soon," he went on. "I
need to find my company."
"Not tonighjt!"
"Yes, I was planning-was
"You're soaked clear through. You ought to rest for a little.
Let me hang your jacket up to dry."
"I don't know, Mrs. Cullen. I really should
move along-was
"Please," she said, leaning across the table. The
hazel eyes pleaded. She didn't want to be
left alone in a place that had suddenly become
full of poisonous memories.
"Well-I wouldn't mind half an hour's
sleep-was He felt like a traitor to Stuart for
admitting it.
"Take the bed. I'll curl up by the fire. First
get out of your coat."
He was too tired to refuse. He took
off the sodden jacket. Mrs. Cullen held it up
by the torn choker collar:
"My, your unit must look elegant. This is
handsome."
"It was before the fighting started," he grinned.
He helped himself to more wine. Mrs. Cullen's
eyes darted to the hard muscles of his chest. Then,
pivoting, she drew a chair close to the hearth and
draped the jacket over the back.
"It really has started, hasn't it?" she said
softly.
"Yes, ma'am. In Colonel Stuart's words-the
ball is open."
"People in the neighborhood have seen Colonel
Stuart. They say he's a fine-looking man."
"That he is."
"A singer. A dancer-was Her eyes met his for a
second. "Fond of the ladies."
The Titansbledhi
"Oh, yes, he's cordial to them. But he has a
wife and children."
"Do you?"
"No."
He approached the fire; stood a while absorbing
the warmth. Then he went to the bed, so weary
it didn't bother him that a man had died there only
a short time before.
He dropped his saber and sash on the floor. His
teeth were chattering again. Mrs. Cullen brought him a
fresh comforter. He bid her good night and turned his
face to the wall, asleep a moment after his eyes
closed.
m
"Glorious. Glorious."
He thrashed from side to side, trying to hide from the
yellow grin; the wasted face pursuing him,
disembodied.
"Glorious, my boy. GLORIOUS!"
He heard screams. Mrs. Cullen's. The
Union soldier's. The screaming multiplied:
Two voices.
Ten.
A hundred-
"Lieutenant?"
"Get away from me backslash was he shrieked,
sitting straight up in bed.
Sweat slicked his face. He was trembling
violently. "I said get- He stopped when he
saw the woman kneeling on the edge of the bed.
He rubbed his eyesockets with his palms
while Mrs. Cullen watched him with a worried
expression. She'd put on a cotton gown and
wrapped herself in another blanket. Her breath
smelled of the wine they'd been drinking.
4908The Ball Is Open"
Wood popped in the fireplace. The rain dripped
on the stove. She touched his face. "Are you all
right?" "Yes." "You were having a nightmare.
Repeating someone's
name."
"Whose?"
"Well, not a name, exactly. You kept talking
about the sergeant."
It was slipping away so fast, he could barely
remember. All of it was dissolving like smoke in the
wind-
God, he felt awful
His teeth rattled. He chafed his arms but couldn't
warm them. Mrs. Cullen rushed for the earthenware jar.
She sat down beside him, handing him a cup. Then she
slid the blanket from her shoulders and draped it over
his. Inadvertently, she pressed against him. He
felt her small, hard breast through her nightgown.
She drew back-quickly.
He drank the wine. It didn't help
either. The darkness outside, the forlorn sound of the rain,
the killing he'd done-all combined to leave him troubled
and full of doubt about his fitness for the war.
"The jug's empty," she said. "I've more put
away, though. I'll get it-was
"Don't bother."
"But you're still cold as ice."
"The blanket helps."
It had slipped. He groped for it with his left hand.
Simultaneously, she reached out. Their hands touched.
He should have pulled his hand away immediately. He
didn't. Without thinking, he closed his fingers around
hers.
With a tired sigh-more exhaustion than passion- she
leaned against him. Her gray-streaked yellow hair
felt soft against his neck.
The cottage was dark except for embers on the
The Titansbledia
hearth. He shifted away from her just a little. Lifted
his right hand toward her chin, his body astonishingly warm
all at once-
Suddenly he went rigid, the tips of his fingers an
inch from her face.
Some of the pain seemed to drain from her eyes. She
tugged his hand until it was touching her skin.
She smiled.
"It's all right, Lieutenant. I'm cold
too."
He was frightened. He'd never been intimate with a
woman before.
But they seemed to communicate without words, she from her
loneliness and a need to eradicate the memory of the
Union soldiers; he from exhaustion and a feeling of
being lost on a dark night that might last till
eternity. His first kiss was almost chaste, their lips
barely meeting. Her palm rested gently against his
cheek.
What a damn fool he was! Having been
married, she'd know right off that he'd nearer had a
woman. But his fears didn't stop him. She was
patient during his first clumsy tugs at her gown.
Then she helped him pull it up over her head.
He couldn't help gazing at the small,
dark-tipped breasts before they burrowed under the covers
together.
They lay facing one another, kissing. He put his
arms around her, drawing comwarmth from her body; the thin,
hard legs; the torso so undernourished he could feel
her ribs.
But her mouth was pliant and giving, opening
against his. If she realized he was inexperienced,
she still said nothing.
She drew him to her. Strange new sensations made
him forget his anxiety. He lowered himself, feeling the
4928The Ball Is Open"
rough brush of hair. An awkward union quickly
became a mutual striving for heat; affection;
tenderness in a world no longer tender-
When he uttered a long gasp and collapsed on her
shoulder, wondrously relieved, she bore his whole
weight without complaint. From time to time she stroked the
back of his head, or kissed his cheek.
They slept in each other's arms the rest of the night.
At first light, she left the bed. He was awakened
by the delicious aroma of fatback frying.
She set out a heaping plate-practically the last
food she had, she told him. The small sum of
money left when her husband died was almost gone.
He ate every morsel, then drank thick, bitter
coffee while she packed some clothing and a few
personal possessions in a worn valise.
He dressed, collected his saber and shotgun, and
went out to saddle Dancer.
It was a beautiful morning. Droplets of
moisture glistened on ferns and the pink and
blue blossoms of honeysuckle and lupine. The
woods steamed after the night's rain. The sun
promised intense heat.
She emerged from the cottage just as he mounted. She'd
pinned her shawl around her bosom and put on a
bonnet. She handed him the valise, smiling:"
"There are a lot of things I forgot to ask you,
Gideon,"
"For instance?" He felt in much better spirits. But
he was impatient to be off.
"Where are you from?"
"Lexington, way down the Valley."
"You said you aren't married-was
The Titansbledic
"No."
"Do you have a young woman you're courting?"
A moment's silence. "I did."
"I don't suppose I'll see you again-was
"Oh, you never can tell. We might run into each
other in Winchester."
It was a lie and they both knew it. The ball was
open. The patterns of the red dance were shifting too
swiftly.
"I hope so," she said. "But if we don't, I
want to wish you well. I'll pray you come
through the war safely."
A cocky shrug. A little of his old assertiveness
had returned; at least outwardly:
"I imagine I will. The war shouldn't last longer
than two or three more months. Here-was He
extended his hand. "Come on up."
"In a minute. There's one more thing I have to do."
She walked back into the cottage. He heard a
loud clang-the stove door opening?-followed by a
series of soft thumps. When she emerged into the
sunlight, he saw her image upside down in a
pool of standing water. He smelled smoke; heard
a crackling. A quizzical look in his eyes,
he moved his gaze from the water to her face.
"That's right," she said. "I scattered the coals from
the stove. It's the only home I have. But I'll
be damned if any Yank will ever make himself comfortable
in it. Now may I have your hand, please?"
She clambered up behind him, slipping her arms around
his waist. He gigged Dancer. The stallion
fairly leaped toward the road.
The smell of smoke thickened. He felt her
look back once as they took the rutted track
through the steaming woods.
His last remark about the war had been a
lie, too. He was beginning to doubt whether it would be
short after all. If the dead Yank was typical
of the roughnecks the
4948The Ball Is Open
North was sending to do its fighting, the Confederacy could
be in for a hard run. Maybe Old Bory's warning
about beauty and booty wasn't so far wrong, either.
He felt himself caught in a whirl of change. Not
only was the war changing day by day; so was he.
I killed a man.
Loved a woman.
The same night.
And dreamed of Margaret's father, too.
He didn't like the dark tenor of his thoughts. He
broke into a chorus of "Lorena" as they jogged
along. But the stench of the burning cottage filled the
forest. Yes indeed, the ball was surely open.
And even as he sang, he knew he was no longer the
same light-hearted dancer who'd waited
impatiently in Richmond for the first martial
measures.
CHAPTER VH
Ride Jo Glory
"GIDEON? Bring that goddamn torch over here!"
Gideon slopped through the creek shallows,
the rags on the end of the branch trailing smoke and
flame. The fire reflected in water nearly as
black as the night sky. The creek was about five
miles southeast of the ford where they'd crossed the
Shenandoah on their way to Manassas this warm
Friday, the nineteenth of July.
Bearded and filthy, Jack Harris squatted
among the reeds. He watched the water directly in
front of him, moving his Bowie knife slowly
back and forth.
Gideon came up beside him. "Stand still!" Harris
whispered. Seconds later, he stabbed the knife in
the water, scattering the reflections.
"Got the son of a bitch!"
Harris yanked the knife out of the creek. A fat
bullfrog twitched pn the blade. Harris
grinned:
"There's our supper. You can douse the torch."
"Can I have it, Lieutenant?" one of the enlisted men
called from a few feet away. He started toward
them. "Ain't found a thing for myself yet."
Wearily, Gideon handed over the torch and followed
Harris up the muddy, tree-lined bank. Harris
was whistling and admiring his catch, dead now.
The two officers walked past Second
Lieutenant Sun- derlind. Knife in hand, he
was splashing in the water, hoping to spot a fish below the
surface. "Asshole

496Ride to Glory
doesn't know enough to be quiet," Harris whispered.
Sunderlind gave them a sullen glance as they passed;
he'd learned they didn't care for his company.
Gideon and Harris reached the small open place
in the brush where they'd piled up dry sticks.
Soon they had a fire going. Similar fires
burned along the shore for half a mile in either
direction. Gideon hunkered down beside I
Company's captain, who began to roast the dripping
frog on the point of his Bowie.
For a second Gideon thought he saw two frogs.
He covered a long yawn; shook his head. He'd
been in the saddle almost continuously since the first of the
week, pausing only long enough for a short nap, or
to forage for berries to supplement a scrap of moldy
bread from his sabretache, or to relieve himself, or
slop his filthy jacket in a stream and put it
back on immediately so it would dry as he rode.
On Monday the Union general the boys had
nicknamed Granny Patterson had sent
men out from Mar- tinsburg toward Bunker Hill.
Gideon encountered some of them in another twilight
fight that ranged crosscountry through hazy meadows and
dim groves. At one point Dancer stepped into an
animal burrow and took a spill. Gideon lost
his shotgun when he was unhorsed.
Dancer scrambled up, miraculously unhurt.
Gideon had no time to search the weeds for the
30-gauge. Four blue-clad horsemen were coming
up fast behind him. He jumped into (he saddle and
rode like hell to escape.
Later that night, his luck reversed itself. He and his
patrol came across three Yank bodies. He
screwed up his nerve, crouched over the stiffened
corpses and walked away with a pair of
.44-caliber old model army Colt
revolvers, plus ample ammunition.
Toward the end of the following day, Tuesday, the
telegraph to Winchester reported General
McDowell was at last on the move from the
Potomac. Gideon heard varying estimates of the
size of the Union force.
The Titansbledig
One man at staff headquarters said McDowell was
coming on with thirty-five thousand
effectives-about fifteen thousand more than Old
Bory's Manassas army.
It wasn't hard for the First Virginia to guess what
was coming. Beauregard would need reinforcements from the
Valley. The problem was to keep Granny
Patterson from discovering relief troops were on the
move. The assignment fell to Stuart's regiment.
The First Virginia saddled and rode toward
Patterson's lines. The cavalrymen had no great
fear of Granny. He'd already shown himself to be
indecisive. He lived up to his reputation that
same Tuesday, withdrawing most of his troops
to Charleston. For two days and nights, the riders
of the First Virginia kept Granny's pickets
well occupied. They hallooed back and forth across the
countryside, shooting at enemy outposts and generally
making a noisy advertisement of their presence.
Behind the screen of this activity, Joe Johnston
started nine thousand men from Winchester on Thursday, the
eighteenth. Only a rear guard of two thousand and a
few men on the sick list were left in place in
case Granny suddenly recovered from his case of the
indecisives.
On Friday, the First Virginia was back in
Winchester to receive new orders. They were
to ride disffManassas along with Pendleton's
five batteries of artillery. A small contingent
of the regiment would remain behind to confuse Patterson as
long as possible.
Gideon had no idea how much ground I Company
had covered in the past five days. But it was enough
to make him feel about a thousand years old as Jack
Harris surveyed the spitted frog and declared:
"Little fucker's done. FU chop him up and we can
dig in."
Gideon ripped into a plump leg with lip-smacking
gusto. The meat was incredibly delicious; best
he'd ever
498Ride to Glory
tasted. But he wouldn't have cared if he'd been chewing
spoiled beef. Anything to fill his aching belly!
Harris picked bits of bone from his tongue and wiped
his hand on his trousers. Beyond the line of fires, the
picketed horses cropped what field grass they
could find. They had no oats, just as the men had no
rations. The regiment's cumbersome commissary wagons
had been outdistanced hours ago, together with
Pendleton's twenty cannon.
Gideon finished eating and spat out a piece of
gristly fiber. He walked down to the
creek, knelt and lapped up the muddy water as if
it were cold beer. Then he filled his canteen, which was
wood, and crudely made. Linen straps were
attached to it by iron staples. But the plug fit
tightly, and the wood was durable. Sutlers in
Winchester sold fragile canteens of glass or
clay sheathed in leather or rattan. Gullible
newcomers brought them for exorbitant prices and
regreted it later.
For Gideon the canteens symbolized the army's
makeshift nature. No two men carried the same
equipment. No two companies wore identical
uniforms. Of course Stuart still said esprit counted
more than fancy trappings. Sometimes, though,
Gideon had his doubts.
He jammed the plug tight, splashed water over his
head and stood up to let the breeze dry his stubbled
face. Crickets chirped in the brush. The men
gathered by the dim fires talked quietly. Everyone
realized the regiment was headed for a major engagement.
Larger, even, than the recent battles that had led
to Confederate defeats in the mountainous western
counties.
Gideon knew the forthcoming engagement would be
crucial. He recalled a page from that
scurrilous Tribune which he'd read in Winchester.
The paper screamed the same message it had
screamed for weeks:
Forward to Richmond! Forward to Richmond! The
Rebel Congress must not be allowed
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to meet there on the 20th of July! BY THAT
DATE THE PLACE MUST BE HELD
BY THE NATIONAL ARMY!
He wasn't sure the Federals would arrive in
Richmond on time. But soon after-who could tell?
He trudged back toward Harris, who was urinating
to extinguish the fire. Gideon was angry at himself
for his pessimism. But he couldn't help it.
Sometimes the army did strike him as a collection of
amateurs.
He worried because his mother was in Richmond. were' And
Margaret. He'd thought of Margaret often in the past
few days-just as he thought of the dead men he'd seen.
Once in a while, doubt devilled his mind:
Maybe she's right. Maybe all this isn't as grand
as we pretend.
Necessary. But not grand.
A brass bugle played a familiar call in the
humid dark. Other bugles repeated the
call along the creek. Boots kicked at
embers. Clouds of ash drifted up. The troopers
walked wearily to claim thier mounts.
Jack Harris buttoned his trousers. "Jesus,
that's mighty white of old Jeb. A whole twenty
minutes for supper."
"More time than we're likely to get at
Manassas," Gideon said, unsmiling. The very name
of the place had taken on an ominous sound.
He felt neither boisterous nor brave this evening; just
tired and tense. He fought back another yawn as
he went to find Dancer beneath the heat-blurred stars.
ii
They rode on toward Paris in the summer dark.
Really humid weather was on the way. Gideon could
tell from the rank smell of the air.
500Ride to Glory
As the night wore on, they encountered an increasing
number of obstacles. Trains of white-topped
supply wagons. Infantry companies plodding in
the road or resting on the shoulders. Finally Stuart
had to lead his regiment into the fields.
"Damn foot-draggers," one of Gideon's
privates complained as they trotted through rustling
stubble. Suddenly, up ahead, they heard
frantic cries:
"Jump-jump! They're sleepin' all over the
place!"
The cavalry column broke apart in total
disorder. Troopers galloped, hunching low and
kicking their mounts into long leaps over terrified
infantrymen waking in the weeds.
Gideon saw a white face and frantic arms
wigwagging directly ahead. "Get out of the way, you
lazy bastard!" he screamed as he reined Dancer
to the left, just missing the roused sleeper. The
stallion galloped at two more men still floundering on
the ground. Gideon booted him into a jump-
The horse barely cleared the cowering men. Dancer
landed with a ferocious jolt.
Each four-man rank was supposed to be separated
from the ranks ahead and behind by at least a yard. As a
result, the entire regiment strung out over a good
distance even in normal formation. Because of the sleepers in
the field, it took almost an hour to restore order
and tighten up the formations again. The confusion and all the
near-accidents only worsened the mood of the
troopers.
They reached the little railhead at Piedmont while it
was still dark. Lanterns burned on
flatcars along a siding. Gideon had pulled a
bandana over his nose. The cavalry raised a
hellish dust; the lanterns on the rolling stock shed
a pale, diffused light through the billows. Faces
peering from the cars might have belonged to ghosts.
The Titans501
"Who are you, boys?" someone called from one of the
cars. "Turner Ashby's Rangers?"
A maq in I Company screamed back, "Want
me to climb up there and brain you? This yere's the First
Virginia!"
A couple of shrill yells erupted from the
troopers. Harris pulled away from the head of the
company:
"Shut up and keep moving! Let the fuckin'
babies have their rest."
"Ain't our fault we're stuck here!" someone
else protested from one of the flatcars. "Goddamn
railroad engineers refuse to work at night."
Gideon frankly wouldn't have minded changing
places with the foot soldiers.
He passed some boxcars with men hanging from the open
doors. He couldn't identify the unit to which the
soldiers belonged. They wore blue-as did most
of the Yanks, but not all. Some of the enemy
wore gray instead. The confusing color schemes
reminded him that the Stars and Bars being carried far
ahead with the regimental colors looked much like the
Federal flag when there was no wind to spread the
banner and reveal three bars instead of thirteen.
I Company clattered on through the dust, leaving the
cars, the pale lanterns and spectral faces behind.
God, Gideon thought wearily, I wonder if
any man in this army, excepting a few like
Colonel Stuart, understands what war is really like.
Images of Margaret's father troubled his. mind.
The Sergeant had insisted war was glorious. But
Gideon was beginning to accumulate evidence to the
contrary. His crotch itched from sweat and dirt. His
armpits crawled with some kind of bugs he'd picked
up. His tailbone was a mass of pain. His eyes were
gritty from dust. He wondered whether they were riding
to glory or something far less romantic.
502Ride to Glory
Colonel Stuart can flay me for thinking it, but it
strikes me the Sergeant wasn't only drunk,
he was crazy.
in
Saturday's dawn brought no letup in the heat.
They followed the railroad line through the
gap in the Bull Run mountains. Occasionally they
passed a chugging engine pulling a load of flatcars
packed with soldiers.
By midday they were out of the mountains and down into rolling
wooded hills. Here and there an isolated farmhouse
stood against the skyline. To judge from the number of
hours they'd been in the saddle, they couldn't be far from
their destination.
A courier approached galloping the opposite
way. He paused long enough at the head of the column
to pass along some news Gideon and the rest of I
Company received long after the rider vanished down the
railroad line.
Though outnumbered, General Beauregard was already
forming battle lines near Bull Run, a meandering
stream that ran beneath an arched stone bridge spanning a
major highway-the Warrenton Turnpike. A
short distance northeast of the bridge lay the
village of Centreville, only twenty miles
from Washington City. But it had taken
McDowell's army two and a half days to cover those
twenty miles. There was plenty of joking about that:
"Those Yanks don't move any faster, we'll
never meet up with "em."
"Fella up ahead says they was all the
time fallin" out to pick blackberries at the
roadside-and never mind how their officers yelled at
"em to get back in line."
Mopping at the grime and sweat on his face,
Jack Harris dropped back beside Gideon, who
had pulled out
The Titans503
of the column to speed the lagging rear ranks-which
included Rodney Arbuckle. Occasionally
Rodney still had trouble staying in formation. Again he
offered the familiar excuse--daydreams about Miss
Nancy Won- derly of White House.
Unsmiling, Gideon told him to take his place.
For a while Gideon and Harris rode in the choking
dust behind their men. Harris looked like a worn-out
ghoul. Bad as I must look, Gideon thought.
The captain took a swig from his canteen, then
chuckled:
"I just heard the goddamnedest thing, Gideon.
Positively can't believe it."
"What'd you hear?"
"That some of the Yanks have already turned around and started
back to Washington."
"You're making that up."
Harris raised his right hand. "Swear
to God I'm not! C Company got it from the courier
when he stopped to fill his canteen. The ninety-day
Yanks are keepin" right good track of their
enlistment time, it appears. The minute it's up-I
mean the minute-home they go."
Gideon laughed for the first time in days. "Well,
that's a few less to fight. Come on, Jack.
Let's get up ahead where we belong."
"Wait. You ain't heard the best. On Thursday,
old McDowell sent some of his lads pokin' up that
river or whatever it is-was
"Bull Run?"
"Yep. The blue-bellies got their tails
kicked by some of General Longstreet's
Virginians. They ran like scairt rabbits."
"That's a good start," Gideon agreed. "But what
the dfevil's McDowell been doing since
Thursday?"
Harris shrugged. "Fuckin' around, I guess.
Reconnaissance comwho the hell knows?"
Gideon heard the bell of a locomotive chuffing
up
504Ride to Glory
the track behind them. "I bet McDowell wouldn't be
wasting time if he knew we had boys coming
in on the cars every hour."
"Bet he wouldn't." The two riders swung out
around the ranks and trotted forward. was "Pears this
is one time when things a feller don't know can hurt
him. Bad."
iv
By Saturday night the grueling thirty-six hour
ride was nearly over.
The sun was a hazy red disk behind huge dust
clouds rolling across fields and groves and
hillsides. As the regiment veered away from the
rail line, Gideon counted forty-seven cars
pulled up, the foremost ones empty, the rear ones still
spilling men in gray and blue.
The First Virginia encountered General Johnston
at the campsite of an infantry regiment.
Gideon spied Colonel Stuart, filthy but
cheery as ever, chatting with the little gamecock outside a
cluster of headquarters tents. Outranking
Beauregard, Johnston had assumed supreme
command for the engagement-although it was Beauregard,
obviously, who had drawn the plans and deployed
the men already in place.
Johnston returned the salutes of the mounted
officers. The troopers sat straighter and
kept their formations more orderly as they passed by.
Harris told Gideon the high command's
headquarters were located at a nearby farmhouse
called Portici.
Shortly after they left the infantry area, they were
plunged into a confusion of food and ammunition
wagons. The foul-mouthed teamsters cursed the heat and
their balky mules.
Gideon started when a distant camion boomed. As
they labored on to their assigned bivouac area, the
noise came again-but not frequently. Only a few
isolated
The Titans505
batteries were firing. Still, given the confusion of the rear
lines, the dust and the promise of worse heat next
day, Gideon found the cannon fire profoundly
unsettling.
At last they reached the bivouac-a field of broom
sedge a little south of the center of the eight-mile-long
Confederate line. The field lay between Bull Run
and the Sudley-Manassas road. The road ran
roughly southeast to northwest, intersecting the
Warrenton Turnpike north of their position. The
troopers saw to their horses, drew rations and then
collapsed to rest.
For the last few hours Gideon's body had been
almost totally numb. Stopping didn't relieve the
feeling. He limped as he walked, his clothing
soggy from foul- smelling sweat.
Finally he settled himself in the sedge, his head on his
saddle. He shut his eyes and groaned in sheer
relief comonly to rouse a moment later at the sound
of someone calling his name. Disgusted, he struggled
to open his eyes.
He'd slept a little without realizing it. The sedge
field was darker.
The new arrival was Harris. He flung his
saddle down beside Gideon's.
"Well, I guess it's gonna be tomorrow for sure."
"You woke me up to tell me that?" Gideon
covered his mouth to hide a jaw-cracking yawn.
"Thought you'd like to know," Harris replied in a
laconic way. "I was talkin" to one of the boys
on Jeb's staff. That high-assed Major
Duncan, he says there's all kinds of folks
comin' out from Washington in the morning."
Gideon lowered his hand from his mouth. Tiny drops of
chill sweat moistened the dust on his palm, "You
mean more soldiers?"
"Shit, no. Folks] Congressmen and
their wives. Ladies and their gentlemen friends.
Reporters-was
506Ride to Glory
Gideon thought briefly of his father as Harris went
on, "Guess the civilians are rentin' every damn
carriage they can find. Even bringin' picnic
hampers so they can eat while they watch the fun.
"Course, I doubt they'll get too close to the
lines-was
Gideon's head felt like a huge stone. He could
barely move it from side to side to express his
doubt:
"Sightseers-Yanks who pick blackberries and
go home when they take a notion-Jack, this whole
war's unbelievable."
"Maybe so, but Major Duncan got the part about
the sightseers straight from Bory's staff."
"Bory still receiving information from the Wild Rose, is
he?"
"He must be."
"Right now I'd be happy if Jeb sent us in
to fight some girls with picnic baskets. I'm
too damn worn out to tackle infantry."
"For fuckin" sure," Harris groaned as he
sprawled out.
"Unless you've got some other startling news,
Captain, request permission to go to sleep."
"Permission granted." Harris put his head on his
saddle, curled on his side and was soon snoring.
But there was to be no rest for Gideon. He'd
barely dozed off again-when someone else touched his
shoulder.
Yelping, he sat up. "Dammit, Jack-to 
Oh." He blinked at the shadowy figure looming
between him and the last glimmers of scarlet in the west.
"Didn't recognize you, Rodney."
"Hate to bother you, Gid-Lieutenant,"
Rodney amended when Harris rolled over, peered
at him, then rolled back.
"Isn't any bother," Gideon said with feeble
humor. "I'm so tired, I can't hear what you're
saying anyway."
The Titans507
Crestfallen, Rodney started away. Gideon
lumbered up, caught his Mend's elbow:
"Listen, I didn't mean that. What's your
problem?"
"No problem. I just wanted to remind you of your
promise."
Gideon stared blankly. He didn't
even catch on when Rodney patted the front of his
jacket, though he suspected he should know the
significance of the slight bulge. He just couldn't
dredge it from his soggy mind.
"The flag," Rodney said.
"Oh, yes. The Stars and Bars your girl gave
you-was
"You said you'd get it to her if anything happens to
me."
"You're worrying over nothing. Just remember
Jeb's warning. Stick with the company all the time and
you'll come through just fine. Every one of us will."
He hoped the lie sounded convincing.
"Sure, I know that," Rodney said.
Something about his friend's eyes troubled Gideon. All
at once he realized what it was. Despite the
attempted reassurance, Rodney was afraid.
In a soft voice, he added, "I'm only asking
in case-was
Gideon broke in: "And my promise stands-in
case. But you won't be able to look out for yourself tomorrow
if you're dead on your feet." He squeezed
Rodney's arm. "Go catch some sleep. That's an
order."
Rodney checked to be sure Harris was
asleep. Then:
"Thank you, Gid."
He turned and shambled away in the dusk.
Gideon settled himself on the ground again. He was so
exhausted, he wasn't even troubled by a fleeting
thought:
Rodney knows. Tomorrow could be the last day of our
lives.
Fortunately he had no nightmares about it.
Instead, he dreamed an erotic dream of Margaret.
508Ride to Glory
At first he thought every Confederate drummer boy this
side of Richmond had taken up his sticks and
slammed them on drumheads simultaneously.
He scratched his left trouser leg. Something was
wiggling down there. He squashed it. Then he raised
his head.
Jack Harris was already up. Gideon squinted at
the sky. He could barely discern the treetops to the
east.
The sound which had penetrated his mind as an enormous
drumbeat took on a deeper, more realistic tone the
second time. Instantly, the sleepiness left him.
Harris peered in the direction of the artillery fire:
"Comin" from up around the Turnpike. We
ain't got anything that big. Bet it's one of them
Parrotls."
Gideon had heard of the rifled cannon. All the
Confederates could throw against them were outmoded
smoothbores.
In every part of the sedge field, men were waking. A
bugle blared. Gideon scrambled to his feet
"What time is it, Jack?"
"Five thirty. Quarter to six." Both picked
up their saddles. Gideon sniffed the still air:
"JL-ORD, it's going to be hot today."
"In more ways'n one."
At the edge of the field, Stuart popped out of the tent
where he'd evidently been conferring with his senior
officers. The officers looked drowsy but Stuart
didn't. He was grinning, his teeth a brilliant
patch of white amid the luxuriance of his beard and
mustache. He faced the north like a man hearing the
sound of heavenly trumpets.
Gideon and Harris roused the sluggards in I
Company comincluding Second Lieutenant
Sunderlind, who
The Titans509
listened to the artillery fire with a ridiculous grin
on his face.
Quartermaster sergeants converged on a supply
wagon that had arrived in sometime during the night
While the cannonading continued, coffee pots were
set to boil over hastily built fires.
Noncoms supervised the issuing of horse rations from
the wagon. Each man tied the nose bag on his
mount, then returned to fill his canteen from barrels
of tepid water. By the time dawn broke, smoke was
drifting above the oak trees screening the regiment from
the country to the north.
Perhaps the firing meant the Yanks were already attempting
a thrust across the stone bridge over Bull Run.
Gideon was hazy about the local geography.
He'd seen no detailed map of the area; maps were
in short supply, and reserved for the senior staff.
But as he understood it, Beauregard's defense line
followed the twisting course of Bull Run, starting
down near Manassas Junction and running up to the
Turnpike-the spot where everyone anticipated a
Federal attack.
He questioned Harris; found out that Beauregard's
strategy supposedly called for a sharp thrust against
the Union left. It seemed instead that the Federals
were launching a similar thrust on the Confederate
left- and doing it earlier.
By seven the cannonading was much louder. Confederate
batteries were answering, he imagined. The sun was
already glaring in the tops of the oaks.
Time dragged. An occasional crackle of muskets
blended with the artillery fire. Gideon began
to sweat.
Not a single courier came galloping to Stuart with
orders. Finally, furious with impatience, the commander
had the bugler blow stand to horse.
Gideon's relief was short-lived. Major
Duncan rode up and barked at Harris. I
Company was to remain behind to hold the position.
With colors and the Stars and Bars out in front, the
510Ride to Glory
rest of the regiment formed into column of fours. The
troopers disappeared along a rutted track leading
through the heavy stands of oak. Gideon noticed that a
few men in I Company looked relieved at being
left behind.
An intolerable two hours followed. Toward the end,
with the smoke growing heavier and heavier above the trees,
Gideon heard cannon booming from a new
quarter-more to the northwest. Unless he misunderstood,
that was far beyond the end of the Confederate left-
Finally the regiment came thundering back.
Gideon saw a few light wounds but nothing
worse. They'd pushed to the stone bridge, encountered
stiff Federal resistance from Tyler's division and
withdrawn. Gideon questioned the excited men. To them, the
meaning of the new bombardment was clear:
McDowell's main thrust-a surprise flanking
movement that must have gotten underway not long after
midnight-was coming down from the north, directly
against the left end of the Confederate line concentrated
near the Turnpike. Two whole Yank divisions
were evidently pouring down from a ford near a place
called Sudley Springs.
Gideon asked a lieutenant in B Company
to tell him exactly what was happening on the
battlefield. The man replied bitterly:
"Confusion, that's what's happening. Damned if I
think Old Bory was ready for a roll-up of the
flank. They're sending units up from our right
flank like fire brigades. May already be too
late. Last we saw, Shanks Evans was pulled
back from the stone bridge and going into line above the
Turnpike."
As the morning dragged on, Stuart stomped back and
forth in front of his tent. He paused once in a
while to take a report from an incoming
scout, and sent each rider out again with a reminder that the
First Virginia
The Titans511
was awaiting orders. Evidently the battle had
grown too hot for anyone to think of the First
Virginia.
Around noon Stuart finally lost patience and advanced
the entire regiment northwestward over low, forested
ridges. The long column swung in an arc and
doubled back to a thick stand of oak trees
overlooking the Sudley-Manassas road.
The Turnpike junction was barely visible up to the
left. Due east lay a plateau which was actually the
top of a fair-sized hill. A portion of a
stream-Young's Branch-could be seen curving away from
the side of the hill nearest the Turnpike. As
Gideon dismounted and gazed out from the oaks, he
understood why the regiment had been forgotten.
Where the Warrenton Turnpike arrowed northeast from
the junction to the invisible stone bridge, smoke
mingled with blowing dust clouds. North of the road he
glimpsed blue uniforms as well as gray ones;
glittering bayonets; rank upon rank of men charging
and countercharging; artillery in battery, firing-
It was difficult to tell which side some of the
blue and gray uniforms belonged to until masses of
men clad in the latter color began to fall back
across the Turnpike and climb the moderate slope
of the hill directly opposite the First
Virginia's position. The Henry House Hill,
someone said it was called-after the family inhabiting one
of two farmhouses visible occasionally through the thickening
smoke.
Confederate cannon roared on the eastern edge of the
Henry Hill. The batteries of Imboden,
Pendleton, Alburtis and Stanard. But their
smoothbores were taking more damage than they were
giving. Heavy fire poured from Federal guns on the
north side of the highway.
More Yanks came streaming from the trees of the
Matthews Hill above the Turnpike, obviously
intending to cross and assault the Confederate
reinforcements ap
512Ride to Glory
pearing all over the Henry House Hill. It was a
scene such as Gideon had never witnessed, let
alone imagined.
Because of the smoke and dust, the battle had a certain
blurred unreality-except for the sudden brilliance of
blood when men fell, bayoneted or cut
down by musket fire. Those men screamed, and that was
real. So was the thunder of the artillery; and the whizzing and
crashing of projectiles.
Wave after wave of Federal troops climbed the
Henry House Hill, only to be blown back by the
Confederate gunners. But the blue ranks kept
coming. The Confederate infantry seemed to be in
disorder. They held positions for a while, then
retreated under the furious cannonading from Matthews
Hill.
A scout reported the attackers who had come down
at Sudley Springs had been joined by Sherman's
brigade, which had stormed across Bull Run not far
above the stone bridge. The Union force was growing.
Gideon could see it. There appeared to be thousands of
Yanks crossing the highway and climbing the
hillside. The Union bombardment intensified.
Shot and shell decimated the hill's defenders.
Gray-clad foot troops pitched over, or fled
to escape the bursts. Gideon saw a cannon and
Umber hit; wood, iron, horseflesh and human
flesh all exploded simultaneously.
Surveying the carnage, he thought of those
spectators who were supposed to have ridden out from
Washington to watch the fight. He hoped
they were safe and comfortable on some distant knoll,
enjoying their picnic lunches and titillated by the
stutter of the guns. He doubted they'd enjoy watching
the battle itself.
He didn't.
The smoke made it impossible to see everything, most
of all the grand strategic pattern-if either side
had one. What he did see continued to sicken and
horrify him.
Stuart was still upset by the regiment's inaction. He
The Titans513
kept riders galloping back and forth between the First
Virginia and the Henry House Hill. The
reports they brought back were discouraging:
Only Colonel Bartow's Georgians, Wade
Hampton's South Carolina Legion and a mixed
brigade from Winchester commen of Mississippi,
Alabama and North Carolina under General
Barnard Bee-were holding off the utter collapse
of the Confederate defenses-
All at once that situation changed.
Stuart jammed his field glasses to his eyes and
pointed through rifts in the smoke. Muskets held
by men lying prone bristled from a heavy growth of pine
trees at the south side of the Henry
House Hill. The word spread along the ranks of
men standing beside their horses: those were Virginians!
Five of Brigadier Jackson's regiments.
Sufficiently protected so that the Federals would have
to come all the way to the exposed hilltop to get at
them.
How late was it? Gideon squinted at the
yellow-gray haze hiding the sun. Past noon,
certainly-
And hot as a furnace. Humid heat. Rain would
fall by morning.
He took a drink from his canteen. The water was
running low. The pungent stink of fresh droppings
told him Dancer was nervous. But no more than he.
By the hundreds, Yanks came up the Henry
slope, then were blasted back by the fire of
Jackson's sharpshooters. Yank batteries were
working their way across the Turnpike, lobbing in more
shells and exploding canister that scythed men down with
bits of murderous metal. Corpses lay all
over the hill. Except for Jackson's line, the
Confederates weren't holding. Entire companies
streamed to the rear in panic.
Another scout arrived from Jackson. The rider's
arm was a tangle of gray fabric,
ripped flesh, bloody muscle. Though Gideon
was a good distance from the com
514Ride to Glory
mander, he heard the courier's almost hysterical shout:
"Colonel-to tion
"Calm down, man, what is it?"
"Johnston and Beauregard are on the field,
trying to stop the rout. Barnard Bee's dead."
The troopers frowned and muttered. Stuart said,
"You're sure?"
"Yes, sir. He was shot from the saddle while he
tried to gather his men. I-I saw him fall. He
was shouting. Pointing to the Virginians. Telling his
men Jackson was standing like a stone wall, so they should
rally too-was
"I'm sorry Bee's gone, but I'm not interested
in his phrase-making," Stuart snapped with
uncharacteristic harshness. "Did you reach Brigadier
Jackson?"
"I-did." The man swayed in his saddle, near
to fainting. He fought to stay upright "I reminded him
you were ready."
"And?"
"He-requested no assistance. He's been hit."
More groans from the men. Though Jackson was
still feared, respect for him had risen rapidly after
the Falling Waters fight.
"How badly?" Stuart wanted to know.
"Only a little nick in the finger, he-was
The man swayed and slid off his horse.
Stuart ordered two troopers to carry the scout a
hundred yards to the rear and put him in a safe
place. There was no medical help nearby.
Harris asked Rodney Arbuckle the time. He'd
forgotten to wind his pocket watch. It had stopped
at three past one. Gideon never did hear the
hour because a shell whined in and burst fifty yards to the
south of the regiments, sending oak limbs crashing.
Horses bucked and whinnied.
Soon Stuart was pacing again, slamming one gaunt-
leted fist into another. Gideon unstoppered his
canteen and drank it The warm water would be the last
he'd
The Titans515
get for a while. In the heat, thirst was almost as
unbearable as the waiting.
Shouts riveted his attention on four Federal
brigades in line massing for another-and perhaps
final-assault on the Henry House Hill.
Two Union batteries previously
across the Turnpike were right behind them.
Another scout came back. Stuart sprang forward
to help him dismount. Still more grim news. The Henry
farmhouse-lost from view long ago in the smoke-had
been hit. The widow Henry, eighty-four years
old, had died when an enemy shell burst through the
wall of her bedroom. And Jackson's
Virginians were threatened on the left.
"I don't want to hear about that!" Stuart roared.
"I want ordersl"
The courier shook his head helplessly. Stuart
walked away, the ostrich plume on his hat
quivering.
The Yank brigades swept up the hillside.
The two artillery batteries followed and
unlimbered. Now the enemy had cannon on the hill
itself-and up near the Turnpike, Jack Harris
pointed out a column advancing southward along the
Sudley-Manassas road. Gideon caught
flashes of bayonets in the dust.
Finally a courier arrived with the kind of message the
commander had been awaiting:
"Are you Colonel Stuart?"
"I am."
"General Jackson's compliments, sir.
His left flank is in danger-was
Angrily, Stuart indicated the Union troops
on the Sudley road: "That's hardly a secret.
If that's all you came to tell me, you wasted your
time!"
"It isn't all, sir. General Jackson
directs that you bring your command into action to protect the
flank."
Stuart's anger cooled. "Thank you. We'll do so
immediately."
516Ride to Glory
He ignored the bugler. His bellow could be heard
by every man who stood waiting beside his horse:
"Mount."
Heart slamming in his chest, Gideon hoisted himself
into the saddle; checked his saber to be sure it was
loose in the scabbard; quickly inspected the pair of
loaded Colt's revolvers thrust into his sash-
He saw Rodney struggling with his mount as the
column of fours formed. He shouted:
"Private Arbuckle-in formation where you belong!"
Rodney clenched his teeth, kicked his horse
viciously and took his place.
Stuart unsheathed his saber. Raised it in a
graceful arc:
"Column of fours-trotr
Some three hundred horsemen began moving out of the
oaks. Above the hoofbeats, the musketry, the
cannon fire, Gideon heard a voice in his
mind:
Glorious, my boy. Gloriousl
Wrong.
Wrong, by God. It was ugly and frightening as hell;
that was the truth Gideon Kent saw in those moments
when the First Virginia headed into action.
CHAPTER
The Waters of Wrath
HOT JULY AIR FANNED GIDEON'S
FACE as he urged Dancer on. Dust and bitter
powder smoke stung his eyes. Up the road the
Yank column appeared and disappeared in the rolling
yellow-gray clouds. But the regiment would cross
well ahead of the enemy.
The First Virginia was entering the battle at a little
past two in the nfternoon by Gideon's reckoning-
thundering straight up to the holocaust on the Henry
House Hill. Another command was relayed by the
captains in the column:
"Draw sabers!"
"Draw sabers!"
"DRAW SABERS?"'
Blades slid out, the metal catching red glints from
exploding shells. Gideon's mouth was dry, his
eyes slitted. The frantic rhythm of his blood
pounded in his ears, loud as Dancer's thudding hoofs.
A pain in his midsection seemed to be eathig him
alive.
He thought of Margaret.
I wish I could tell you again how I loved-
How I do love you.
The regimental colors and the Stars and Bars vanished
briefly in a thin stand of oaks at the summit.
One by one, the companies negotiated the trees and
burst into the open-
Gideon rode past terrified men in gray who were

518The Waters of Wrath
fleeing down to the Sudley Road. On the plateau
the smoke was even thicker and more acrid. He caught
sight of soldiers in red trousers and fezzes coming
up the hillside on the regiment's left.
Zouaves. But whose-his
It was impossible to tell. The color bearers
carried regimental and company flags and something that
resembled the Stars and Bars. But all the
banners hung limp.
Stuart halted the regiment well beyond the trees and
surveyed the scene. Gideon bent low over
Dancer's neck as a stray Minie ball whined by.
Suddenly the Zouaves coming onto the hill veered
away from the First Virginia. They were heading for the
Federal batteries.
Stuart trotted toward the men in red, waving his
saber:
"Don't run, boys! We're here to help-was
Major Duncan charged after him, shouting:
"Colonel, are you sure those men are ours?"
Stuart trotted a few yards closer.
Abruptly, one Zouave rank knelt and fired
at him.
Stuart ducked. Major Duncan was blown out of the
saddle. A Zouave color bearer whooped, waving
his flag from side to side.
"Son-of-a-fucking-bitch!" Jack Harris
yelled. "Thirteen stripes-was
"Lookit the regimental flag, Captain!"
another man cried. "It's the llth New York!"
"Fofaard-gallop!" Stuart howled, standing in his
stirrups with his saber raised, indifferent to the
musket balls whizzing around him. His
saber slashed down, pointing at the enemy. Every man
stood in his stirrups as the First Virginia charged.
Gideon squinted into the yellow smoke, his teeth
locked together. He tried to keep Dancer on a
straight course, barely hearing the Zouave
muskets because of the thundering horses. But he heard
Jack Harris shriek,
The Titans519
whipped his head around-and saw Hams" mount stumble,
riderless-
The First Virginia crashed against the front ranks
of the Zouaves, horses rearing, sabers hacking.
Men pitched from their saddles as the leading companies
broke apart. Some troopers sheathed their swords and
resorted to sidearms: shotguns; rifled
muskets; pistols. Gideon saw a trooper
blast a portly Zouave with a buck-and-ball. The
Zouave seemed to Hft off the ground, his head
bursting apart in a rain of gore and gristle.
Now Gideon's own company was close to the melee.
The smiling nonentity, Sunderlind, riding next
to Gideon, flourished his saber:
"Get "em! Kill the bast-was
Abruptly, Sunderlind's eyes bulged. His
blade jerked down, nicking Dancer's
neck. The stallion lunged to the left, nearly
unseating Gideon.
Gideon booted the horse ahead, out of the way of the
second lieutenant who was slipping sideways from
the saddle, still staring at the fighting but not seeing it. A
Zouave ball had torn Sunderlind's neck open.
Spurring blood- That was why Gideon's cheek
felt wet and warm.
Sunderlind fell, lost amid the charge. The whole
right side of Gideon's jacket was stippled red.
He twisted around; saw Sunderlind lying in the parched
and trampled grass. Troopers of J Company
rode right over him, cracking his skull open.
The 11th New York fired another volley.
Gideon felt a ball pluck his left sleeve.
I Company had reached the enemy; formations on both
sides had already disintegrated.
A stubble-faced Zouave lurched against Dancer,
cursing. The man tried to jam the muzzle of his
musket beneath Gideon's chin. Gideon brought his
saber across and down; felt the blade hack cloth and
flesh and bone.
520The Waters of Wrath
He wrenched his head away as the musket discharged
barely a foot from his ear.
Then the Zouave dropped it, staring up at Gideon
with astonished eyes. All at once the pain in his
hacked arm penetrated his mind. He opened his mouth
to scream. Gideon ran him through the throat.
The quick charge had broken the Zouaves. They went
scrambling away across the hill or back toward the
Turnpike. Gideon rallied his men and followed
an enemy company fleeing down to the curve of Young's
Branch. There was no orderliness to the pursuit.
Four troopers rode on Gideon's right flank,
three on his left.
Two of the retreating Zouaves threw down their
weapons and flung themselves on the ground. One
screamed, "We're done. It's their black horse
cavalry-to "
Saber in his right hand, Gideon cocked a Colt with
his left. He rode close enough to a Zouave to shoot
him through the chest. Stupid damn Yanks, he thought
as the soldier fell. The First Virginia rode
bays and roans and grays.
Disorderly bands from the 11th New York reached the
Turnpike and ran in the direction of the stone
bridge. The rout was complete. Gideon signaled
his men to a halt just this side of Young's Branch;
looked back and saw soldiers in gray
swarming over the two Federal batteries, shooting and
bayoneting horses and men. The 33rd Virginia
had charged from the pines where Jackson stood.
He heard bugling. The signal to reassemble. He
led his men-perhaps twenty of them-toward a thicket at
the western edge of the Henry House Hill. Noise
on the battlefield distorted sound, but he thought the
bugling had come from there.
He was wrong. Reaching the thicket, he saw no
sign of Stuart
Men on lathered horses crowded around him. A
private shouted, "Where's the regiment,
Lieutenant?"
The Titans521
"I don't know. I can't see the colors
anywhere-was
"How many men lost, Lieutenant?"
"I don't know that either. I saw Sunderlind fall.
And Harris-was
"Horses, too. Fifteen or twenty-was
A hand pounded Gideon's shoulder. He looked
around at Rodney Arbuckle's grinning, dusty
face:
"Hell of a fight, huh?" Rodney's eyes shone
as he displayed his revolver. "I got me
two for sure."
Gideon had gotten a couple himself. But he felt
no joy because of it; and he was too shaken for more than a
touch of pride. The First Virginia had prevented
the 11th New York from rushing to the defense of the
two Federal batteries he glimpsed through the
smoke clouds. The 33rd Virginia was swarming
all over the Yank arr tillerymen, locked in
vicious hand-to-hand combat. But when Gideon gazed
back at the bodies of the Zouaves on the
hillside, his eyes were bleak. Those were men, not
dummies of straw-
A scout galloped past the thicket, halting long
enough to shout that President Davis had reached the
field; had come on the cars from Richmond because he'd
heard the battle was going badly and hoped to rally the
men-
Gideon wasn't interested: "We're part of the First
Virginia. Have you seen our colors?"
"On the Sudley road," the scout cried, then
galloped on.
Gideon sagged in his saddle, aware of the men watching
him. The charge and pursuit had separated them from the
main part of the regiment, and he was uncertain about what
to do. He had no idea whether the scout's
information was reliable. In the smoke it was easy
to make a wrong identification of flags or
uniforms. He hid his indecision by delaying.
He shoved the Colt's back into his sash. Reached
for the canteen hanging from his saddle and discovered
522The Waters of Wrath
both sides of the canteen had been drilled through by an
enemy ball without his even being aware of it
"Lieutenant?"
"What?"
"We going back to the Sudley road?"
"I guess we should. Form up. Column of
twos-was
The men maneuvered their mounts, congratulating one
another. But Gideon knew the Yanks weren't
licked yet. On the far side of the Henry House
Hill another wave of blue infantry was charging the
summit in a rank that seemed half a mile
wide.
He tried to close his mind to the sounds of
cannonading; musketry; the eerie counterpoint of
men moaning and crying out all over the field. No,
the Yanks weren't licked by a damn sight. There was
still plenty of time left for a man to die-
He wanted to lie down and rest. But
Stuart had taught his troopers to call on strength
they didn't know they had. Though Gideon's arm
felt leaden, he raised his saber:
"Foraard-fro!"
Five minutes later, they found the colors.
Holding a position on the Sudley-Manassas
road, the First Virginia saw more heavy fighting
during the rest of that incredible afternoon. Endless companies
and regiments and brigades surged back and forth
contesting possession of the Henry House Hill.
The regiment launched a second charge at fresh
Union troops on the road, and scattered them.
Gideon killed one more Yank, wounded two and
narrowly missed being gutted by a bayonet.
As the riders turned back, Stuart brought up a
light battery and wheeled it into the trees overlooking
the
The Titans523
body-littered highway. The cannon blasted
Yank brigades from Heintzleman's division
attempting to turn the Confederate left. The First
Virginia thundered forward in one more short, devastating
attack and cleared the road again.
It was impossible to find out what was happening
elsewhere, though it seemed to Gideon that more
and more Yanks were retreating up the Sudley road
or across Young's Branch to the Centreville
highway.
Still, there were conflicting reports:
McDowell had been swept from the Henry House
Hill.
No, he hadn't. The two Federal
batteries-Ricketts" and Griffin's-had been
lost and retaken three times. The action was still
fierce, the outcome uncertain.
Then Gideon heard Colonel Jubal Early's
brigade was quick-marching from the extreme right end of
Beau- regard's original line. And a last
brigade from Winchester -Kirby Smith's-was coming
off the cars to reinforce Early. Finally, Early's
brigade appeared on the Confederate left,
muskets spouting fire and smoke, bayonets at
the ready. One of the strangest sounds Gideon had
ever heard pierced the smoke pall:
As Early's men charged to secure the Sudley
road, they began to wail.
Wail-that was the only word for it. The cry started
deep in the throats of a few men, then spread,
rising in pitch, growing louder and louder-a terrifying
yell of rebel defiance-
Gideon heard it from Early's left flank, where
he was galloping through more of those oak trees with eleven
men left under his immediate command. He'd again become
separated from the regimental colors. He listened
to the yell and shivered. It was savage cry; a
defiant bay rising from a thousand throats-
That was the beginning of the end. Early's brigade hit
524The Waters of Wrath
the Union troops. Shooting, clubbing, stabbing. The
Yanks broke and ran for the Turnpike.
Gideon and his troopers swung back to the road.
Caught up with one of Early's companies. Saw
exultation on young, bearded faces.
"Where's Stuart?" he shouted. He got more answers
than he wanted:
"Chasin' the Yanks up to Sudley Springs."
"Naw, he's runnin' them down the Turnpike.
We're gonna have that bridge over Bull Run in
half an hour!"
The battle had degenerated into near-leaderless confusion
on the Confederate side; total confusion on the
other. Lacking reliable information, Gideon decided
on pursuit toward Centreville. Soon he was
north of the Turnpike, leading his eleven men
northeast
They were reduced to ten by a Confederate marksman in
some briars at the foot of Matthews Hill. He
had confused the soiled hussar jackets with Union
blue and shot one of Gideon's men out of the saddle
as they rode by. The troopers wanted to go after the
marksman isiond kill him, but Gideon held them
back.
Enemy soldiers were streaming northeastward, their army
totally destroyed. Near Bull Run, Gideon
disand his men caught up with a panting Union
corporal. Gideon iidn't flinch when Rodney
shot the corporal in the back of the head.
The troopers reined in and surveyed the stone
bridge. Now the Confederates occupied it, moving
artillery up and blasting shells into the smoke clouds
hiding the hills where those Washington picnickers were
supposed to be gathered. The bridge was impassable.
Gideon led his ten up the brown stream to a ford,
crossed there and cut back to the Turnpike.
Near the highway they dismounted and holed up in a
thicket, to rest and pick off Yanks running
wildly toward Centreville by themselves or in
groups. The Yanks
The Titans525
no longer had any semblance of
organization-or even any officers that Gideon could
see.
The time in the thicket was a respite and a turkey
shoot too. After a while he tired of emptying his
revolvers at the demoralized Yanks. He also
had an uneasy f eeling he'd led his troopers in
the wrong direction. He saw no more men from the First
Virginia. Perhaps Stuart was up on the Sudley
road after all.
Sick of watching the Yanks fall, he ordered his
ten to mount. They'd turn west again and try to locate
the regiment.
The Turnpike was temporarily clear. Down by the
stone bridge, cannon boomed. A shell went
screaming overhead, invisible in the murk. Gideon
trotted his men out of the thicket. An instant later
a Union platoon appeared on the road to the right.
Gideon wheeled his riders, drew his saber and
shouted the command to charge.
Most of the Yanks scattered to the shoulders of the
Turnpike, but kept going. A few stood and
fired. Gideon lost three more. The Union
soldiers vanished and Gideon's remaining
troopers scattered in pursuit Soon he was
alone.
JH-EVERY hallooed into the drifting smoke. Got a
faint answer far to his left. He searched the south
side of the road for the next ten minutes but found no
one.
With a terrible thirst scalding his throat, he headed
Dancer back toward the highway. The three men who
had fallen were dead.
What to do now? He'd lost his command.
But he still had ammunition for the brace of revolvers.
He still had his saber. And he was unharmed.
Since the Yanks were running east, he'd go that
way, too. See whether he could find some of his men.
He didn't really want to go. But he felt he
had no choice.
526The Waters of Wrath
As the steaming July Sunday drew to a close,
Gideon rode up the Warrenton Turnpike through
clouds of smoke hanging between the hills in the still
air. Occasionally, out on either side of the highway,
he glimpsed men in blue moving in the same
direction. Not a one of them paid any attention to him.
The Confederate pursuers seemed almost as
disorganized. Frequently Gideon spied groups
of them chasing the Union stragglers north and south of the
Turnpike. He passed others on their
knees beside Yank corpses. The Confederates were
manhandling the bodies; stripping them of equipment.
Ammunition. Canteens. Even buttons.
Drawing close to a slight curve in the road, he
heard screaming up ahead; screaming so raw and full
of hurt, the cries of the wounded on the battlefield
seemed like lullabies by comparison. Shortly, he
jogged by the source of the hideous noise-a tent
erected at the roadside.
The canvas facing the highway was pinned back.
Inside, hazy lanterns burned. Men thrashed on
wood trestle tables. Surgeons with forceps
probed for bullets. Others were busy sawing off
injured limbs. The arms, faces and aprons of the
doctors were slopped with the blood of their shrieking
patients.
At the eastern edge of the tent he saw a
four-foot- high pile of amputated arms, legs,
hands, feet. Fly- covered. Stinking. He kicked
Dancer ahead, reined in and leaned to the left,
vomiting.
Sour fluid spattered his left leg. It took
him some time to stop retching. Afterward he felt faint.
He encountered a band of jubilant Confederates sur
The Titans527
rounding eight miserable prisoners. One of the men in
gray called to him:
"You better hurry up if you want to catch any
Yanks, Mr. Cavalry. Most of "em are in
Centreville already. They ain't gonna stop till
they're safe in Papa Lincoln's arms-ain't that
right, you pig-fucker?"
The man gigged one of his prisoners with a bayonet
The prisoner lowered his head and kept walking; tears
trickled down through the dirt on his cheeks.
A little further on, a familiar figure came
lurching out of the darkening smoke. Gideon sucked in
a breath:
"Jesus-Rodneyl"
Rodney Arbuckle stopped on the shoulder as
Gideon rode to him. Suddenly Gideon's
stomach began hurting again. The lower left side of
Rodney's hussar jacket showed blood. A
corner of the Stars and Bars he carried next to his
belly hung down to his crotch.
Rodney had three canteens slung over his right
shoulder. He held a rifle in his right hand, and
something small in his left. A pair of oddly shaped
iron plates connected by a link chain dangled over
his left forearm.
Though he was weaving from side to side, Rodney
grinned:
"Damnation, Gid. Where'd you come from?"
"From where we hit that Union platoon and got
separated." He jumped down and rushed
to Rodney's side. "You're hit-was
"Scratch, that's all. Guess Jeb was right.
Doesn't pay to lose the rest of your company.
Couldn't help it, though. Wanted to chase those
Yanks."
"So did I. Wasn't smart." Gideon meant
it. He'd permitted his little band to violate the very
rule he'd lectured Rodney about
"Where've you been since we broke up?" he
asked.
"Up an" down the fields alongside this road.
Hunting souvenirs. Gid, you've never seen such a
mess as there is up ahead!"
528The Waters of Wrath
"Where?"
"That little wood bridge over the next creek.
Cub Run, I think it is. A couple of shells
hit just as some Yank wagons were crossin'. I was
right beside the bridge when all hell tore loose."
"What happened?"
"The Yanks went crazy. Cut their teams
free. Left everything-includin" ambulances with
wounded inside. Then a lot of buggies started comin'
down from the hills and that made the jam all the
worse. I had to ford the creek "cause there was no
way to get over the bridge. God, you never saw
such a commotion! Our boys started haulin"
prisoners in right and left. Not just soldiers, either.
Ladies and gents in those fancy rigs-was
"The sightseers."
"Yessir. I heard we even caught a New
York Congressman."
Gideon thought his friend was about to fall. He grabbed
Rodney's arm. Rodney pried his fingers away:
"I don't need any help, Gid. It's nothin'
but a teeny nick in the ribs. I lost Red Eye,
though. Some blasted Yank teamster took a shot at
me while I was splashin' across Cub Run.
Drilled poor Red Eye square in the head.
Second shot-was
He lifted his left arm. The peculiar metal
plates clanked together.
"comwent through here."
With horror, Gideon saw the hole the ball had
torn above Rodney's left hip.
"Not bleeding much any more," Rodney added.
"Better let me look at it anyway."
"No, you go on and try to find some of the others."
"You haven't seen any of them?"
"Nope."
"Nor Stuart either?"
"Not a sign."
"Then I did pick the wrong direction. Damn."
greater-than
The Titans529
Rodney licked his lips. "You go on now,
Gid-was
"Not till I take care of you."
"Dammit, it's a scratch, that's all! I feel
fit as a spring peeper comin' out to croak in the
moonlight."
He didn't look it. His face had broken out in
a sweat that streaked the dust on his cheeks. He
dropped the rifle on the ground and touched the bit of
flag sticking out below his jacket:
"Bled a little on this, though. "Course, that
doesn't hurt. When I send the flag along
to Nancy with the rest of this stuff, the blood'll
prove I saw the elephant and looked him square
in the eye."
"Rodney, you listen to me. There's a field
hospital a little ways back. You stop and have a
surgeon check you."
Rodney ignored him. "Just feast your eyes on this
gear I picked up for Nancy-was He drooped his
right shoulder. The canteens rattled and clacked.
Then he kicked the rifle. "The Yanks are
throwin" it away! Look-was
He opened his left hand. Gideon saw some sort
of implement resembling a clasp knife.
"Those blue boys sure travel better'n we do.
This here's a knife, fork and spoon all in one.
Folds up nice and neat, doesn't it?"
Gideon tapped the other souvenir-the sculptured
iron plates. Originally they'd been connected
by two link chains. One of the chains was broken.
"What the devil is this thingamajig, Rodney?"
"Don't you know a vest when you see one?"
"A vest-to " Finally the contours of the iron plates
made sense.
"Guess someone sold "em to the Yanks
to protect 'em from bullets. Weighs half a
ton, but Nancy'll be tickled to have-was
He swallowed. Squeezed his eyes shut. He
seemed unsteadier than ever. Gideon
grasped both his arms.
530The Waters of Wrath
"comto have it," Rodney finished, opening his eyes.
Again he wriggled free of Gideon's hands.
"Maybe I will stop at that hospital and have 'em
slap on a dressing. It hurts a little bit."
"Be careful. There are still Yanks moving out there."
"Moving! They're runnin" like hell. We whipped
"em, Gid. We whipped 'em for fair!"
"Yes," Gideon nodded slowly, "it's" beginning
to seem as if we did."
"See you when the regiment's together again." Gideon
looked sour. "Whenever that is." Rodney picked
up the captured rifle, wincing. Gideon frowned
but said nothing.
He watched his friend wave and stagger off. When
Rodney finally disappeared, he walked back
to Dancer. Pulling his body into the saddle was an
excruciating chore. He felt older than
Methusaleh.
iv
At Cub Run, the bridge was still blocked
by wagons marked U.s. Army. Some were upright, some
overturned.
He met soldiers escorting bands of
Yankee prisoners. One group consisted of two
elegantly dressed young women and a Federal officer
whose uniform bore no marks of battle, only dust
"A few of the picnic crowd?" Gideon asked one
of the boys in gray.
"Yes, sir. This here major spent the afternoon ex-
pla*" to the young ladies-Miss Partridge and
Miss Claire of Washington City-how General
McDowell was gonna beat the tar out of us. The
major an' the ladies were packin' up the last of
their fried chicken when we come across "em. We ate
the chicken an" caught the birds."
The Titans531
Laughter. One of the young women began to weep. The
major put his arm around her, staring at his captors
with sullen eyes.
Gideon forded Cub Run upstream from the bridge.
He couldn't believe the tangle of overturned
carriages and Federal wagons blocking the road
on the other side. One civilian wagon-an
odd, oversized wooden box on wheels-gave off
a hideous chemical stench. Wide pieces of
black cloth dangled between splintered rear doors.
The staved-in side bore an arch of lettering-M.
BRADY PHOTOGRAPHY. A smaller,
horizontal line centered beneath the arch said Washington
City.
Smoke drifted over the wreckage. A wheel on
an empty Federal ambulance still revolved slowly,
squeaking.
Gideon tried to guess the time. Five o'clock or
later, to judge from the slant of the sun. He heard
a faint rattle of musketry from the direction of
Centreville. He knew it was his duty to continue
that way and search for his remaining men. But he was
tired. Tired and alone and wishing he were standing close
to Margaret; touching her; telling her yes, God,
yes, she was right, it was cruel and dirty business,
even when a victory was won.
While Dancer drank from Cub Run, a company of
Confederate infantry came along. The men
scrambled through the shallow water on the other side of the
bridge. The foot soldiers were whistling; joshing;
exchanging obscenities about the Yanks. The first
disciplined gray unit Gideon had seen in hours.
The infantrymen hailed Gideon as he knelt beside
the stallion, scooping water to his parched mouth.
He returned the hails with a listless wave.
Dancer kept lapping the water; couldn't get enough.
The soldiers reassembled beyond the wrecked
wagons and marched away toward Centreville.
Suddenly, on the opposite bank of the creek and
some twenty yards
532The Waters of Wrath
north, a man in blue dashed out of the underbrush. He
leaped into the shallows, his rifle clutched in front
of his chest. Too late, he saw Gideon.
Gideon reached for one of the Colts in his sash. The
Yank stopped in the water, white-lipped.
Gideon pulled the revolver. Drew the hammer
back. The Yank's hands whitened on his weapon.
An immense tiredness and a sense of futility
overcame Gideon. He couldn't bring himself
to fire.
The Yank stared at him a moment longer, then bolted
back to the bank and raced upstream. He vanished in
the smoke. Presently Gideon heard splashing.
The man had crossed.
He didn't care.
Riding back toward the stone bridge, he still felt
thirsty. He could tell from the foam on Dancer's
muzzle that the stallion needed more water, too.
He took to the shoulder as four Confederate
ambulances came grinding up from Cub Run. Each
canvas- topped two-wheeled vehicle was
drawn by a single horse. The uniform of the first
driver showed blood from shoulder to knee. The other
three drivers were only a little cleaner.
Inside the ambulances Gideon heard the incoherent
voices of men in pain. The left front wheel of the
leading ambulance hit a large stone, bounced over and
down, hard. A man shrieked.
"Godamighty," Gideon whispered. The shriek
dwindled away. The ambulances rolled on. He
raised one hand to cover his face.
"Godamighty."
The Titans533
vi
About a quarter mile further on, he was riding
slowly when he saw a lanky figure in a filthy
light blue uniform lying face down, legs on the
shoulder, head in the ditch.
He reined Dancer to a halt. A few feet this
side of the body, two vest-shaped iron plates
lay in the dirt. A foot closer, the rifle and the
canteens. Almost under Dancer's muzzle he spied
the combination utensil.
Gideon's throat filled with bile as he dismounted
and started walking. He could tell Rodney was dead;
his back showed no signs of breathing. The
little nick hadn't been so little-
Gideon rubbed his eyes. They seemed unusually
blurred and wet.
He raised his head at the sound of boots tramping
on the road. A disorderly column of Confederate
infantry appeared from the direction of the stone
bridge.
He wanted to run away. Run as fast and as far as
he could. But he clenched his hands and took a step
toward the body.
Another-
At last he knelt and reached for Rodney's
shoulder. His mind was a jumble:
Souvenirs for Nancy-
Separation means risk-
My fault.
"Hey, you!" a sergeant shouted from the head of the
column rapidly drawing abreast of him. "What
unit you from?"
Without glancing up, Gideon said, "First
Virginia Cavalry."
"Come along an' join the fun. Old Stone Wall
says-was
"Who?"
534The Waters of Wrath
"Old Jackson. He says if he can rally
five thousand boys, we can be in Washington City
by morning. Wouldn't you like to get to Washington City?"
Gideon stared at the passing faces. An
enormous rage was building within him. A rage
directed at everything in creation: the marching men with their
idiot grins; the heat; the smoke; the slaughter that
wasn't glorious, but ghastly-
His fatigued face had the look of a skull. Other
soldiers shouted:
"Comin'?"
"Hey, what do you say?"
was say go to hell. I don't give a goddamn
if I never see Washington City."
Several men swore at him before the column
disappeared.
To reach the flag under Rodney's jacket, he had
to roll him over. Look at his open eyes. At the
lips already a little blue and peeled back from his teeth
in what might have been a puzzled smile.
Carefully, he pulled the Stars and Bars free.
As Rodney had said, the flag was bloodied; still
damp. Some of the blood smeared Gideon's fingers.
Clutching the flag against his side, he staggered into the
ditch, vomiting up the water he'd
swallowed at Cub Run.
vii
The closer he came to the stone bridge, the more
traffic he encountered. He rode past couriers;
advancing units; ambulances. Rodney's flag
was folded over his sash on his right hip.
He was feeling a little better. Less lightheaded-
But no less guilty. He'd led Rodney and the
rest away from the regiment; away from the safety of
numbers.
The Titans535
When he came to Boll Run, he decided to water
Dancer again. And try to drink a little himself. The
spasms in his belly had eased. After the stop,
he'd ride to the junction and search for his regiment
northward on the Sudley Road.
He didn't want to go back to the regiment. It was
his duty. Nothing else would have influenced his
decision. He'd seen too much in the hours since the
boom of the great Parrott gun had awakened him before
dawn.
He'd survived the day. He'd fought without letting
his fear get the better of him. But he'd seen too
much, and most of it he loathed.
He cut away from the Turnpike at the
bridge, hoping to go down to the stream near the arches.
The way was blocked.
By dead bodies.
Scores of them-all in Union blue-lay along
both banks. He presumed the men had been shot
down while retreating.
Here and there among the corpses he saw a hand
twitch. A shoulder lift. Beneath a mound of five
or six corpses, someone was crying.
Bodies floated in the stream as well. The water
was more red than brown.
How many more streams would be reddened before all this was
done? How much more wrath would be unleashed? How far
would it spread? To the Deep South? Across the West?
Into the North? Over the entire country? Would there be
death and suffering along the waters of the whole nation before
there was an end, and peace among Americans again?
You've got to remember comwhy you're fighting.
Independence.
The right to be let alone-
He tried to remember. But he only kept thinking
of the price. It was exactly what Margaret had
promised.
Angry at his own weakness, he bowed his head and
536The Waters of Wrath
held Dancer's rein until the worst of the chaotic
feelings passed. Then, despite the litter of
dead, he found a path to the edge and dismounted.
Bull Run smelled foul. Maybe it was the stench
from men whose bowels had loosened as they died. But he
knew he couldn't swallow a drop of that scarlet
water, even if he perished of thirst.
Dancer shied. Kept backing and bumping against him, as
unwilling as his master to taste the tainted stream.
Finally, the gray put his muzzle down. But he
kept backing and bumping his hindquarters against
Gideon, and twitching his tail as he drank the
water and the blood.
vui
About four yards behind Gideon, the Massachusetts
boy opened his eyes.
He blinked, puzzled. His genitals felt wet and
hurt like fury. He knew he was gone.
Gradually a little feeling returned to his right hand,
which was still curled around the muzzle of his rifled
musket. His eyes focused. He saw a
yellow-haired man and a horse directly in
front of him at the water's edge.
The man seemed to be trying to get the balky horse
to drink. It would lap a little, then shy and
switch its hindquarters, bumping the man-
The boy's tongue edged out between lips stained by the
blackberries he'd picked coming down from Centre-
ville. Because he hurt so badly, he knew he
had very little time.
And in three more days, his enlistment would have run out.
He could have gone home to Massachusetts-
Well, it was too late to think of that.
One fact bothered him. The yellow-haired man
wore blue.
The Titans537
Yet it wasn't regular Union blue. It was a
queer, light shade, unlike any he'd seen
among the Federal divisions. Nor did it carry
any insignia he recognized.
Maybe the man was from some cavalry regiment with which
he was unfamiliar-
No, he'd seen the cavalry, too. They wore
dark blue.
Attempting to quiet the horse, the man turned
slightly. His right side was exposed. What the boy
saw then told him the man was probably a Reb.
A fly crawled into the mouth of a dead man a foot
from the boy's face. The boy didn't stir. He
felt a terrible hatred as he stared at the
small flag hanging on the man's sash.
He saw only part of a red stripe, and a narrower
parallel of white. But the width of the stripes told
him it wasn't the flag he followed.
He bit down on his lower lip, fighting pain.
The man turned his back again, speaking to the horse in
a tired, almost quarrelsome voice. Very carefully,
the boy slid his musket to his shoulder.
Was it loaded?
He thought so. He couldn't remember positively.
He believed he'd loaded it just before the retreating
company broke at the Turnpike and ran for the stone
bridge with the Rebs howling that strange, godawful
yell.
He sighted. Vision was difficult. The man and the
horse blurred, sharpened, blurred again. He heard
wagon wheels on the stone bridge.
He steadied the musket so it was aimed at the
yellow- haired man's broad shoulders. He
wished the horse would stand still. Quit switching its
tail and shifting its hind legs between drinks. The
movement kept blocking his target-
Finally he had a clear shot. Again the horse
moved, spoiling it.
No time left. Up on the bridge, a
wagon driver shouted a warning.
538The Waters of Wrath
But the horse was drinking again.
The musket pointed straight at the man's back.
The Massachusetts boy pulled the trigger and
heard the explosion. His blackberry lips curved
into a small, sleepy smile as he died.
CHAPTER IX
The Wounded
"THE SHOP WILL BE CLOSED until further
notice," Eliza Marble said, tying her bonnet
ribbons under her chin. The roar of rain was
punctuated by bursts of thunder, flares of lightning
and the howl of the wind.
Dumbfounded, Margaret asked, "Are you serious?"
On the counter near her hand lay a stop-press
edition of the Examiner. She'd been scanning the
upsetting headlines when Aunt Eliza came in from
the street, soaked.
Margaret had no idea where the older woman had
been for the past hour and a quarter. Nor had Aunt
Eliza explained. She'd gone directly to the
back room to fetch the bonnet, a shawl and her
umbrella.
Margaret felt miserable.
Yesterday-Sunday-had been bright and warm. Today, a
torrential storm was lashing Richmond. But the
weather wasn't the sole cause of her distress.
She wanted to study the paper again, even though she
detested the thought of doing so.
"Perfectly serious," her aunt snapped. "It's
nearly four and we haven't had a single customer
since we opened."
"You can't expect many shoppers today, Aunt
Eliza. I don't suppose a person in the city
had more than an hour's sleep last night."
Her aunt's reply was unusually testy:
"I should imagine you slept quite well."

?"
540The Wounded
"I didn't."
"How peculiar. I thought you had no concern for the
welfare of the troops."
Margaret held back a furious retort. Aunt
Eliza was obviously tired. And there was good reason
for her remark about Margaret's indifference. She
knew her niece hadn't communicated with Gideon
Kent since their quarrel in May. Margaret had
absolutely refused to discuss the
subject-or.the reason she'd grown so wan and
listless during the intervening weeks.
The truth was, she hadn't slept well for days.
Her anxiety had grown to the point where Gideon was
seldom out of her thoughts. Worrying about him kept
her tossing night after night. Even now, she saw his
face; remembered the feel of his caresses that evening
on the towpath-
Just as she remembered the bitter words afterward, when her
fear had driven him away.
Aunt Eliza walked to the door, preparing to open
her umbrella. She gave her niece another
unsympathetic look i
"The ladies of St. Paul's don't share your
indifference, I'm happy to say. We've been
holding a special meeting for the past hour. The cars
carrying the casualties from Manassas should start coming
in by nightfall. St. Charles and the other two
hospitals can't possibly accommodate all the
men. People are being asked to go to the depot to help receive
them. And to open their homes. We haven't
adequate space in Rockett's so I want you
and Willa to clear away the cuttings in back.
We'll take one or two of the soldiers here-was
"That's really-why you're closing the shop,
then?" "Correct. If your sensibilities are
too tender to permit you to help care for the men, I'll
rely on Willa."
Margaret shook her head. "You're very angry with
me, aren't you?"
"It's un-Christian of me, but I am."
The Titans541
"I've felt it for days."
When the older woman spoke again, her tone was less
severe:
"Margaret, I have a good idea why you and
Lieutenant Kent severed your relationship. Your father
talks excessively while under the influence of
spirits. You took the lieutenant to Rockett's-was
"Yes," Margaret murmured.
"comfora purpose which some of the Sergeant's subsequent
remarks helped me to understand. He overheard your
quarrel on the stairs. You tried to discourage your
young man from being too ardent about this war."
Margaret's silence was an admission.
"Though I find it hard to sympathize, I can understand
that too. What happened to your father hurt you. You're
afraid of ever being hurt again. So you've built a
kind of wall around yourself-was
"Do you blame me?" Margaret cried.
"I can't stand the sight of suffering! I've seen too
much. I don't want to see any more!"
"Then you'd better lock yourself in a room, young
woman. And hide there for the rest of your life! If
you don't have the courage to take the world as it is-to
accept its irrational cruelties along with its
God-given goodness-was
"I don't," Margaret whispered.
Softly: "Then I suppose you don't deserve
anger. Merely pity. However, the decision's
yours."
"I appreciate your granting me that much!"
"Margaret-was The older woman still spoke gently.
"You must realize it was never mandated in Heaven that our
existence on this earth would be easy. Until you understand
and accept that fact, you don't deserve to be called
an adult. Nor fully conversant with God's
plan for man, I might add. I'm not saying this
to hurt you-was
Margaret's scornful glance questioned the statement
i""
542The Wounded
"Quid, I'm not. I love you. But I can't
abide self- centered behavior. Or cowardice.
I'm sorry to be harsh, but that's how I
feel. I've kept it to myself too long."
Margaret turned away, bitter:
"Thank you so much for telling me."
"See here." The ferrule of Aunt Eliza's
umbrella rapped the floor. "I should think you'd
at least be pleased President Davis has
returned safely. That we've won a victory.
I am."
Her niece remained silent, her back turned.
Aunt Eliza jerked the door open and raised her
umbrella. Rain gusted into the shop. Wind flapped
her bonnet. She was seething:
"Very well. Your attitude's quite clear. After you
help Willa prepare the back room, go home.
Behind your wall."
Crash.
The closed door lessened the noise of the storm.
Margaret bowed her head.
Aunt Eliza was right. She was afraid to give
herself to Gideon-to the war-to anything that might
expose her to suffering of the kind that had made her
early years so unhappy. Although she'd thought of
Gideon constantly since their parting, and had come
close to writing him a dozen times, she'd held
back.
But now there was a new and agonizing worry rising within
her. She knew from the paper that he had probably
been in the fighting yesterday. With an unsteady hand,
she spread the front page and forced herself to look at
it again.
GLORIOUS TRIUMPH OF OUR TROOPS
AT MANASSAS!
McDowell's Hirelings Utterly Routed
In The Greatest Battle Ever Fought
On This Continent!
The Titans543
A Victory Unprecedented On American
Soil!
Foe In Wild Retreat To Washington.
A Panic Among Northern Civilians
Present Near Battle Site.
President In The Field To Inspire The
Soldiers.
General Bee And Colonel Bartow Mortally
Wounded. Heavy Casualties On Both
Sides. Lists Of Killed, Injured And
Captured Not Yet Compiled.
The Heroic Exploits Of General Jackson's
Virginia Infantry Defending Strategic
Hill.
Rout Of The Ferocious Fire Zouaves
By Colonel Stuart's Cavalry.
Scattered words drew her eye again:
Heavy Casualties-
Lists Of Killed, Injured and Captured-
Colonel Stuart's Cavalry-
Quickly, Margaret turned the paper face down.
She walked to the door, her eyes wet with tears.
Main Street was almost as dark as midnight
Gideon-
No. She mustn't permit herself to think of him. If
he were hurt, or dead, it would destroy her-
She'd told herself the same thing for weeks.
Repeated
544The Wounded
silently that he meant nothing to her. That she was
better off never seeing him again.
Then why didn't she believe it now?
Furious at her weakness, she rubbed the stubby nose
she disliked so much. She sniffed twice, controlling
the tears. Then she squared her shoulders and walked
into the back.
Willa was busy removing cloth, pins and other
paraphernalia from the cutting table. Without a word,
Margaret began to help her. She moved
awkwardly; self- conscious. Willa had surely
heard the exchange with Aunt Eliza. But she had
the good grace not to mention it.
At last, Willa said in a cool voice, "Is
it all right if I leave as soon as we're
finished?"
"Are you going home?"
"No, to the Spotswood. President Davis is
"sposed to speak from the balcony if the rain lets
up. He's gonna talk about the battle yesterday.
I'd sort of like to see the manacles, too."
"What manacles?"
"Didn't y.read about them in the war news?"
Willa's tone implied a failing on Margaret's
part.
"I don't read the war news, Willa."
"Well, our boys captured chains and manacles
at Manassas. Meant for lockin" up our
generals and maybe President Davis himself when the
Yanks came on to Richmond. That ain't gonna
happen now," Willa finished, her pride
obvious. A moment later she blurted, "I
don't understand why you ain't happy about the wonderful
victory!"
"Happy? We may have lost as many as two
thousand young men. That's something to be happy about?"
Willa didn't flinch from the hostile gaze.
"Yes. Yes, I think so-was A shrewd glint in
her eyes then. "How do you know the figures? Thought
you didn't read the war news."
The Titans545
"t n
Scarlet, Margaret stopped. Thunder exploded,
loud as the artillery fire she'd dreamed of
Saturday night. She knew from the Sergeant's
incessant retelling of Buena Vista that exploding
shot could tear a man apart-
Gideon.
The rain pounded the roof. A wagon clattered by on
Main. Perhaps a farmer's wagon. Earlier in the
day, Aunt Eliza had said every farmer in the district
was being asked to rush fresh vegetables to the city's
hospitals.
Margaret realized Willa was still watching her. In a
faintly contemptuous voice, Willa said:
"Do I have permission to leave?"
"Yes. Get out of here!"
"That'll be a pleasure!"
Willa flounced out.
Go on! Margaret thought. Go listen
to Davis tell you how splendid it was. Then go
down to the depot and look at them. Smell them.
Listen to them wailing. Watch the coffins being
unloaded-
"Then come back and tell me how happy you are,
damn you!"
She beat her hand on the cutting table, shaking her
head savagely.
It didn't help. Nothing helped. Not reason.
Not rage. Nothing.
"Gideon," she said to the gathering darkness. "Dear
God-are you safe?"
For more than an hour, Margaret struggled with her own
fear and confusion. She read the Examiner dispatches
half a dozen times. Finally she extinguished all
546The Wounded
but one gas lamp, put on her shawl and bonnet and
went out, locking the door behind her.
Rain pelted her face and soaked her skirt as she
turned up Main. The street was dark. Gaslit
windows of shops and saloons had a pale, watery
look.
Even with the downpour, the sidewalks were crowded.
Most people were going the same direction- up Eighth
Street toward the Richmond,
Fredericksburg and Potomac depot.
The people around her were quiet; speaking in subdued
voices if they spoke at all. She paid little
attention to them, or to the driving rain, as she walked
the four blocks to the station.
She was terrified. But she had to know about Gideon.
She had to see whether he was among the wounded. If
she didn't find him, she'd ask some of those
returning whether they knew him.
The odds against it were staggering. But any effort was
better than the futility and torment of trying
to pretend she didn't care.
A huge crowd waited outside the depot. Tonight
there were no illuminated banners. No oratory.
No rhythmic stamping of feet to the cadence of
martial music. The people were still, gathered around the long
lines of canvas-topped wagons, farm rigs,
private carriages ready to receive the casualties-
Lightning raked across the sky. Off to the north, she
heard the whistle of a train.
She began to run, her cheeks streaming rain and
tears.
The Public Guards tried to keep worried
families and the curious out of the depot and train shed.
But the
The Titans547
guards were too few and too feeble to accomplish the
job.
The depot waiting room was hopelessly clogged with
people. But an almost hysterical compulsion was driving
Margaret. She twisted, shoved and jabbed her way
to the platforms.
She shielded her eyes against the glare of a
locomotive lantern. The first train had arrived.
A harried man in a white duster caught her arm:
"Ma'am? Please go back. There are too many people
out here already. We won't be able to get the boys
through-was
She tore away from him. Stepped off the platform
to the bed of the track adjoining the one where the train
stood. Freight cars stretched out past the last arch
of the shed. The rear of the train was lost in the wet
darkness.
Doors rolled back. Uniformed men began
to climb out. Civilians-children as well as
adults-surged down the platform alongside the
cars. There were sudden outcries as parents or wives
saw familiar faces. Hurrying up the track,
Margaret watched a red-haired boy in soiled
gray stumble against an older woman. The
woman clasped the boy in her arms and pulled his
head to her shoulder, weeping. The boy's left leg
was wrapped in brown-spotted linen.
They poured off the cars by the dozens, some with exhausted
smiles, others grimacing, still others with lost,
vacant looks. Most of them had bandaged heads or
splinted arms. The walking wounded; leaning on
canes; crutches; a piece of a tree branch-
The babble of voices grew louder; almost painful.
The shed itself was steamy, and poorly lit by lanterns
hanging on wooden pillars beween the tracks. A
woman's scream knifed through the din. Margaret saw
her- a matron in a fine brocaded dress. She
dropped her parasol, swooning onto the tracks
several yards ahead. On
548The Wounded
the platform, a boy on crutches asked someone,
anyone, to help his mother. The boy's right leg had
been amputated at the knee.
The woman roused; began thrashing from side to side,
hands over her face. She screamed again. Leaning on
a gray-haired man in a frock coat, the
amputee tried to calm her. She kept screaming.
Two other men pulled her up and dragged her away.
Now stretchers were being handed down from the cars.
Orderlies fought to hold back the crowds. All
at once Margaret smelled the stretcher cases.
They stank of dirt, sweat, pus, urine. She
gagged.
The high sides of one stretcher completely concealed
its occupant. But his chalk-white hand was visible,
clutching the pole that ran through the canvas. The hand
opened and closed; opened and closed-
She could almost feel the unseen soldier's spasms
of pain.
As she worked her way down the track, the cars
outside the shed became visible. Rough-clad men were
hauling off pine boxes. Handling them carelessly.
Slamming them on the platform; stacking them like so much
cordwood.
At intervals along the platform, small aid
stations had been set up: crates with wash basins
on them, and casks on adjoining trestles. Women
dippered water from the basins, or dampened cloths,
then picked out a stretcher and rushed along beside it
to offer a wounded man a drink or sponge his face.
By the time Margaret had gone halfway down the length
of the train, she'd passed three such stations.
Another headlight loomed out in the darkness, growing
larger. The second train was chugging in on
the track on the extreme left side of the shed. The
bellow of the whistle and the clang of the bell only added
to the noise.
She moved more slowly now, searching the faces of
The Titans549
the walking wounded. She saw no uniforms resembling
Gideon's but she kept looking, her breathing fast
and shallow.
A boy with both arms splinted tried to embrace a
portly man. The boy burst into tears. "Oh,
Pa-I thought I'd never get here. Oh, God, you
can't imagine what it was like-was
The press on the platform worsened as more and more
civilians crowded into Jhe shed. The frustrated
volunteers handling the stretchers began to swear;
loud, ugly obscenities. Chuffing and grinding, the
huge locomotive pulled in along the far track.
Margaret fought an impulse to flee the bedlam of
foul odors and maimed bodies and grief.
Not watching her footing, she stumbled on a tie.
Gasped loudly. Three women operating an aid
station turned to stare-
Aunt Eliza's eyes glared with reflections of the
shed lanterns:
"What are you doing here?"
Margaret gained her balance. With a look of shame,
the older woman rushed to her niece:
"Are you all right?"
Margaret nodded. Aunt Eliza put both arms
around her, pulling her close. Margaret clung
to her for warmth and comfort.
"Child, you're soaked through!"
"Don't worry about it, Aunt Eliza, I-was
Over her aunt's shoulder, she saw the pole of a
stretcher slip from a volunteer's hand. The head end
of the stretcher dropped. A blond boy rolled off
the canvas, shrieking. Both his arms were missing.
"Clumsy dumb son of a bitch!" the other
volunteer yelled. "Get him up! Goddamn it,
woman, stay back unless you want us to leave him
there-to "
"Oh, Margaret-was Aunt Eliza's voice
broke as she
550The Wounded
hugged her niece. Margaret's eyes were riveted
on the blond boy thrashing his heels on the
platform.
"comI Said cruel things to you at the shop. I'm
sorry."
Margaret wrenched her eyes away from the
gruesome sight of the armless boy. "It's all right-was
"No, it isn't. I realized that coming over here. I
couldn't rest last night. I'm tired. That's why
I said such cruel things. I'm truly sorry.
Forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive."
"But-was
"No. There isn't. I deserved every word."
Softly, the older woman asked:
"Why did you come here? To help?"
"I came to look for-was
She stopped. The blond amputee was being lifted
back to his stretcher. He screamed. Margaret's
heart broke. Her nod was as small as her
voice:
"Yes. I'll help."
Let the memories hurt forever-I'm not hard enough
to turn away from this.
In a stronger voice, she said:
"Tell me what I can do, Aunt Eliza."
iv
A half hour went by. A third tram arrived.
Margaret lost track of time. Her dress grew
filthy. Blood and pus stained her sleeves and
collected between her fingers as she hurried
along beside stretchers from the train:
"Let me wash your face for you."
A stubbled, boyish face grinned at her.
"Well, ma'am, it's been washed four times
a'ready. But go ahead if you want to."
As gently as possible, she swabbed his forehead with the
cloth. Then his closed eyes; his cheeks; his throat
The Titans551
As he was carried on, he lifted one hand in a
gesture of thanks.
She turned back to the crates where Aunt Eliza
and the two other women from St. Paul's were emptying
red-tinted basins on the ties next to the platform.
The blazing headlight box of the latest train blinded
her for a moment. Two empty tracks separated her
from the train, and as she stared at it, a new worry
tormented her.
Having told Aunt Eliza she'd help, she
took the duty seriously. But it had prevented her
from watching the arriving soldiers as closely as she
wanted. If Gideon came in on one of the
trains, she might miss him-
"Clean water, Margaret," one of the women called.
She dodged the elbow of a stretcher bearer and bent
to dip her cloth in the freshly filled
basin. The doors of the new train's boxcars were
clattering open. For some reason the order of the cars
had been reversed. Coffins were unloaded from the head
end, stretcher cases from the middle, and the walking
wounded were climbing down at the rear. She was wringing
her cloth when she thought she spied a familiar face
in the press of soldiers limping up the platform.
She dropped the cloth-
"Gideon-?"
She gathered her skirts in her hand and jumped down
to the track, running. By the time she reached the next
platform, she knew there was no mistake. Laughing
and weeping at the same time, she waved. Called
to hitn again. But he didn't hear-
He was walking. No bandages visible. No sign
of injury. Just dirt and bloodstains on his
once-splendid jacket and trousers. He moved
slowly, his head down. A saber hung at his hip.
Two revolvers jutted from a sash that had once
been white. Some sort of flag was folded over the
sash.
"Gideon-here! Here I am!"
This time, he heard. Raised his head, puzzled.
All at
552The Wounded
once he saw her across a pile of coffins on the
empty track that separated them.
A strange, hesitant smile lifted his mouth.
She ran frantically around the coffins, her mind
conjuring terrors. He wants to smile but he can't.
He's hurt, but I can't see the wound-
They literally crashed into one another. He flung his
arms around her waist, hugging her so hard she felt
her spine would break. She didn't care.
He smelled abominable. She didn't care about that
either. "Oh, Jesus," he said. It sounded like a
sob and a laugh in one. "Margaret. Margaret-was
She kissed his hair. His face. His throat. He
hugged her again, his matted beard scraping her skin.
Then he kissed her fiercely on the mouth.
Finally they separated. Laughing, he wiped at his
eyes:
"I'm acting like some damn fool boy-was
"Are you hurt, Gideon?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. My Lord, what are you doing here? I never
expected-was
"I know. I know. But all I could think about was how
I sent you away because I was frightened. Too
weak to bear the thought of something happening to you. But not
hearing from you was worse. So much- worse-and tonight, I
knew-was The words tumbled out, almost incoherent. "comI
knew I couldn't stand back any longer. I couldn't
stay away. Not help. Not care-was
His blue eyes took on a stark look.
"Then I guess we've both changed some,
Margaret."
"What do you mean?"
"You were right in everything you said before I left.
Manassas was-Christ, I can't even begin
to tell you. There were brave men there-my God, so
brave you
The Titans553
wouldn't believe it. I saw them die. Stabbed
by bayonets. Blown apart by cannon. You were right,
it-was One hand lifted, clumsily. "comx was no
holiday. No place for boys who think
soldiering's nothing but a grand game-was
She couldn't keep her hands from caressing him; feeling
for wounds. She found none-
Except when she looked in his eyes.
Aunt Eliza had finally located her vanished
niece. She was staring with pop-eyed wonderment at the
two young people walking close together, as if
to draw strength from one another.
"I don't understand why you were on the train,"
Margaret said. "There's not a scratch on you."
"Nearly was. I lost Dancer at the river.
Bull Run. A Yankee took a shot at me.
I didn't see him. My back was turned.
Poor old Dancer was nervous. He bumped against
me just as the Yank's gun went off. The ball
caught him in the belly. I had to shoot him. So
I'm just the same as an invalid now. I haven't
got a horse. I don't know where I can find
another. But I have to look. That's why I got
permission to hop the cars and come back to Richmond.
It was either that or be detailed to sit in Company
Q."
Margaret halted. "So you're going back to the
cavalry?"
"Soon as I can. Not that I'm very excited about it.
This is going to be a mean war. It may last a lot
longer than we expected."
"But the papers said the Yanks ran from the field!"
"Not all of them. I think the ones that did had bad
leadership. With better officers, the outcome might
have been a lot different. Some of our own did their
share of running, too."
554The Wounded
She leaned her head against his soiled blue jacket
"I don't want you to go back."
"I have to. But before I do, there's something I'd like
to be sure about-was
Awkwardly, he scratched the end of his nose. Under
the layer of grime his face was red.
"What's that?" she said.
"You, Margaret."
She kissed him lightly, ignoring Aunt Eliza
on the other side of the track.
"Doesn't that tell you?" she whispered.
He grinned, then grew apologetic: "I should have
written. I didn't because I thought you were through with-was
She pressed her fingers to his lips. "I was
wrong. I hate to see you fight. I don't want
to lose you. But I-was She turned red, too.
"comI've decided I'd rather run the risk than
never-I mean-was
Flustered, she couldn't continue. They stood close
together, oblivious to stares. He held both her
hands:
"You know what it was like hearing you call to me? It was like
a miracle. Margaret-was Scarlet now, he
blurted, "One thing would make it a devil
of a lot easier to go back-was
"What?"
"Knowing that when it's all over, you'll give me your
hand in marriage."
She shook her head. He looked stunned:
"But I thought-was
"I love you, Gideon. I don't want
to wait. I want to marry you now. Before you go
back."
Dawning wonder lit his face. "Oh, my Lord-was
He threw his head back. "Eeeowww!"
The whoop made Aunt Eliza start. The two
Episcopalian ladies at her side raised their
eyebrows. Suddenly Margaret was fearful again. If
she married him and he
The Titans555
died, the grief would be beyond imagining. Did she have enough
love-enough courage-to face the possibility?
To live with it day after day-his
Gazing at his face, she knew the answer. She'd
known it when she closed the shop and walked all the
way to the depot in the rain. As Aunt Eliza
said, there was always risk; always the promise of pain-
But the promise of love was stronger. More than
anything in the world, she wanted the love of this
tired, bedraggled boy who had become a man.
"You really mean it, Margaret?"
"Yes, my darling, I do."
"Come on!" He jerked her hand, practically
dragging her off her feet. "I've got to take you
to meet my mother-was
"Is your mother here in Richmond?"
He nodded. "My stepfather's working for the Treasury.
I've never been to the place they're renting. But I
wrote down the address."
"I should stay until Aunt Eliza says it's
all right to go. I've been helping her tend the
wounded-was
Astonishment: "You have?"
"Yes."
"Lord, things really have changed!"
Gideon turned toward the older woman on the
platform. Eliza Marble had gotten over her
surprise and looked not a little annoyed by her
niece's behavior.
In a whisper, Gideon said, "She looks
fierce."
"Just tell her your favorite drink is cold
water and she'll melt."
"All right. I guess I'll stay with you.
I might as well-I'll have to ask her permission
to marry you."
556The Wounded
Despite the ugliness in the shed-the maimed men; the
coffins; the groans and occasional screaming-
Margaret had never felt so happy.
"Yes, I suppose you will," she agreed. "I
don't think she'll chop your head off." She
grasped his hand. "Let's find out."
"Hell," Gideon grumbled. "Tacing the
Yanks was easier than this."
Vll
At a few minutes past one o'clock that same night,
Edward Lamont rocked back in his chair and
slapped the page of the late edition that had appeared
on the streets at eleven thirty.
"By God," he smiled. "Right here in Richmond!"
"Couldn't believe it myself until I read we'd
captured civilians along with the soldiers,"
Josiah Cheever said.
Mrs. Muller's Lager Beer Saloon was almost
empty. A table in a rear corner provided
complete privacy for the two men. Cheever's
triangular face had a scarlet cast. Above the
table a dim gaslight glimmered in a dark
red cup.
"Did your wife swallow that message saying there was
an emergency at the Treasury?"
?"to think so. You picked a pretty convincing nigger
boy to deliver it. Besides, she's been upset all
day. Not thinking too clearly-was
"Why?"
"Gideon. He was at Manassas with Stuart's
cavalry. The papers haven't yet printed the list
of casualties."
Lamont smoothed his mustache with a fingertip.
Sipped from his stein. Then picked up the paper
to reread the portion of the column Cheever had been so
eager to show him:
The Titans557
Among the civilians taken prisoner in the confusion
following the enemy retreat were Congressman Ely of
Rochester, New York, and a Washington
journalist, one of many gathered near the field of
battle.
The journalist, a Mr. Jephtha Kent,
represents The New York Union, a paper which
has constantly hurled scurrilous accusations of
treason at the Confederate States of America.
Congressman Ely is unharmed. The
journalist, however, was injured in the mad melee at
Cub Run. His rented buggy overturned, and he was
brought on to Richmond unconscious, suffering a
possible concussion of the brain.
Despite the repugnant political attitudes
of the civilian prisoners, General Johnston's
headquarters has issued a statement saying they will be
humanely treated and given full medical
attention. Similar treatment will be accorded some
five hundred enemy officers and enlisted men who are
likewise being forwarded to the capital for incarceration.
"Right here," Lamont repeated, chuckling.
"Sounds like he's half dead, too."
Lamont nodded in a thoughtful way. "Makes the
task that much easier, Josiah."
"With a concussion he might die naturally."
"Let's take no chances. We'll proceed as if
he's going to recover. With a spot of luck, and some
medical help, he probably will."
"You have no reservations about going through with it?"
Cheever's eyes grew faintly intimidating.
"Our mutual friends are still counting on it."
Lamont snorted. "Our mutual frsl They're
more than willing to funnel money into the Treasury
by devious routes. But if anything goes
wrong at our end,
558The Wounded
they won't know us. They'll never admit being parties
to-was
"They don't dare admit it," Cheever
interrupted. "You know .davis would never use
Yank money obtained the way we plan to obtain
it. Use it knowingly, I
mean."
The actor grimaced. "A gentleman to the end.
If the President was on a sinking steamer, he
wouldn't jump into a longboat if he discovered it had
been built in Boston."
"You haven't answered my question. If you're worried
about the personal risk, we can arrange for a third
party-was
"Like the idiot who failed in Baltimore? And the
one you hired to try to get the job done in
Washington? No, thank you. I prefer to do it
properly."
He leaned forward, his brow shining in the dark red
light.
"Not for gain, understand. I'll kill the first man who
says I'm into this for personal gam."
Intimidated himself, Cheever swallowed.
"I know you're not, Edward."
"I didn't marry Fan for gam. I didn't
give a damn about the money that belongs to her sons
until the political situation made it
important. I have no second thoughts,
Josiah."
"Even though it means deceiving your wife?"
Lamont waved. "I'm fond of Fan. I
wouldn't have married her if I weren't. But as
to deception-I've done my share. An actress
or a saloon girl from time to time-it's never troubled
my conscience. Do you imagine this would trouble my
conscience? A chance to do something important for the
cause-?"
He took a hefty drink of beer; wiped foam from
his mustache. "I work for old Memminger, remember?
I know the government's financial situation-which
won't change because that damn Davis still refuses
to
The Titans559
sell'our cotton abroad. We've got to whip that
Northern crowd any way we can-was
His eyes shone. "I lost a beloved aunt to a
black boy. I'd do anything rather than see
victory go to those bastards who want
to foment nigger insurrection." His quiet rage
shifted to Cheever. "I frankly resent your
doubting my sincerity."
"I didn't mean to suggest-was
"The hell you didn't! Nothing is more important
than dealing with the reverend. As a matter of fact,
I'd say you're the one whose reputation's in question."
"Now just a minute-to "
"Keep your voice down! I'm only reminding you
that you chose one bungler in Baltimore, and another
one after Fan and I left the capital. Their
capital," he amended.
"The man in Washington came well recommended!
And it's hard as hell doing business by cipher and
courier. I had to hire him sight unseen. It's not
my fault he was a sot who couldn't find the end of
his arm, let alone one stinking reporter. If he'd
been the right sort, Kent would be dea-was
Lamont grabbed his wrist "Don't speak that name.
Anytime-anywhere."
Cheever's cheeks darkened. "But you're making
accusations-was
"Valid ones."
"Is that why you've been operating behind my back?"
"My." Lamont smiled in a cold
way. "There's very little you don't know, is there?"
"Very little. I know you've been writing letters-was
"To more reliable people in Maryland. I started when it
became obvious your Washington agent wouldn't come
through. I've been discreet. I only contacted one
or two men I felt I could trust. Young
Wilkes Booth, for instance. But I never got to the
point
560The Wounded
of revealing what I wanted done. Now we don't
need outside help. The good reverend dutifully
went out to Manassas with all the other reporters,
including that London Times fellow I've been
reading about-was
He saluted the ceiling with his beer stein:
"And a benign deity saw fit to come to our aid."
Lamont set the stein on the table. "This time it's
going to work, Josiah. But you've, got to help.
I'll need special clothing-used clothing, which I
can't be seen buying. Once we know where the
prisoners will be quartered, I'll need a pass."
"Since I'm in Walker's department, that should be no
problem."
"I'll do the-was Lamont smiled again. "comthe
actual work."
"YouTI be taking a terrible chance."
"What's the alternative?"
"Even with a pass, you can't simply walk in-was
"Of course not. That's why I'm the logical
choice. I'll go as someone else. I'll have no
difficulty. But most important, doing it myself will
give me immense pleasure."
Cheever pondered, then nodded. "All right. Now how
about your wife? Will she suspect?"
"No. I've been cautious so far, and I'll
continue to be cautious. Afterward, you can be sure
I'll appear appropriately grieved. For
weeks. And she'll believe it."
"You mean we'll have to wait weeks for-?"
"Yes. I'm not going to lick my chops and dip
into the coffers the minute he's gone. She'd catch
onto that in an instant. I have to be particularly
careful because of that one foolish mistake in
public-was
"When we met?"
A nod. "We should have acknowledged one another. We
both reacted hastily-and wrongly. I know it aroused
Fan's suspicion. I think she's forgotten about
it, but in case she" hasn't, I have to proceed with
extreme care. Lead her along. A hint
here, a hint there-until
r
The Titans561
our goal seems like her idea. I can pull it off.
She's deeply loyal. Besides, there's no real
harm in caution. We both believe the war may last
a good while. And once the reverend is no longer with
us, putting the money in the proper hands is only a
matter of time."
At last Cheever looked satisfied. "Just like the
reverend's comah-departure."
"Yes. It's finally going to happen. Let's drink
to it, Josiah-was
He clinked his glass against that of his friend. His handsome
face was composed; even cheerful. His dark eyes
sparkled with little red highlights as he added:
"The most important performance of my career."
CHAPTER X
The Murderer
FAN'S LETTER had told the truth. The second
floor flat the Laments had rented was shabby and
cramped. The building and the neighborhood combbl
Main Street east of the canal basin-were
correspondingly dingy.
Yet the flat seemed a paradise
to grimy and exhausted Gideon Kent. Wood
crackling in the tiny hearth generated a warmth he
found unbelievably luxurious after exposure to the
rainy darkness.
A mantel clock brought from Lexington showed a
quarter past three in the morning. Bundled in a
dressing gown, Fan looked almost as tired as her
son. She'd burst into tears when he knocked at the
door, Margaret on his arm. After a lengthy
conversation with his mother and his future wife, he'd left
to see Margaret home, returning about two.
He wiggled his disgracefully duty toes in front
of the fire, yawning. His saber scabbard,
sabretache and two Colts lay on the floor beside
his chair.
Edward sat opposite him. Fan's husband had
come in a half hour before, having finished his night work
at the overburdened Treasury. He said he'd
rushed straight home from the office but would have to be
back at the regular starting time.
Edward had embraced his stepson when Gideon
announced his intention to marry soon, then interjected
enthusiastic comments while he listened to Gideon's

The Titans563
scription of the action at Manassas. In contrast
to the other people Gideon had met on the streets,
Edward was in unusually high spirits. He seemed
unaffected by the city's forlorn atmosphere.
"That's exciting, Gideon," he said when Fan's
son finished his account of the battle. "Exciting and
heartening. So is your news about marriage." He
smiled at his wife. "I haven't found out if your
mother approves of this young lady, though."
"We only met this evening, Edward. She seems
pleasant and quite intelligent. She's certainly
attractive-was With a touch of sadness, Fan gazed
at the powerful- looking young man near the fire. "But
I wonder if I really have any say in the matter.
I look at Gideon and realize he doesn't
belong to me any longer."
It was said gently. Gideon took no offense:
"I want your approval."
"A mother gives her approval to a boy, not to a
man. I can't get over how much you've changed
since we left Washington."
He smiled, but without much humor. "I'd guess
everyone who was at Manassas and lived through it
looks a few years older."
"Well," Edward said, "I'm damned
sorry Davis didn't permit Jackson to push
on to the Potomac." He rose and paced to a
cracked mirror to. smooth his mustache. "The
President will take a good deal of fire for that
decision, I'll wager."
Edward turned back to mother and son. Gideon
wondered why he didn't feel wholly comfortable in his
stepfather's presence tonight. Perhaps it was because Edward's
jovality struck him as peculiar. Bad humor
would have been a.more logical mood for someone forced
to work until after two in the morning.
"I do regret I didn't meet Miss Marble,"
Edward continued. "But I will in a day or two.
I'm looking forward to it."
564The Murderer
Gideon stretched; yawned again. "I'm looking
forward to falling into that tin tub."
"I wish we had a second bedroom for you," Fan
apologized.
Gideon pointed a big toe at an old
settee:
"That'll feel as comfortable as a cloud. I may
sleep for two days."
"You deserve it!" Edward said.
Gideon shook his head. "I'm only
joking. I have to hunt up a horse. And send a letter
to Miss Wonderly. Along with the flag-was
His eye moved to the mantel. The blood-marked
Stars and Bars lay folded beside the clock. He'd
already explained how he'd come to have it, and why it was
to be sent on to White House.
Edward snapped his fingers. He stalked to the table where
he'd flung a paper he'd brought home:
"With all this talk of marriage and the battle, I
nearly forgot a piece of news I saw in the
late edition."
He opened the paper and pointed out a column.
Gideon blinked to focus his itching eyes.
Suddenly he exclaimed:
"Oh, my God."
Fan leaned forward. "What is it, Gideon?"
He handed the paper across. "The crowd of civilians
who came out to watch the fighting included reporters.
Some of the civilians were captured near Cub
Run. One-was He felt utterly confused;
uncertain whether his response should be elation or
dejection. "comone of them was father."
White-faced, Fan read the item. Gideon saw
a flash of anxiety in her eyes as she whispered
one word:
"Concussion-was
She glanced up. "Edward, what will they do with him?"
"Imprison him, naturally. But give him
medical assistance, as the story indicates. What
difference does it
The Titans565
make? I'm certainly not going to fret about his
welfare."
Somehow that angered Gideon. He peered at his
filthy toes, wondering why he was concerned about a
man who had villified his mother; a man he'd
struck in rage.
He knew one reason. Ever since Fan had
written him about the street encounter with Edward's friend
Cheever, doubt had deviled him. Doubt about
Edward's honesty.
Edward stepped behind Fan's chair. Reached down
to squeeze her shoulders between his palms:
"Neither should you. After his outrageous behavior in
Washington, he's entitled to no sympathy from us."
Fan sighed. "I expect you're right. But he is
hurt-was Gideon felt a new admiration for his mother
when she added, "Perhaps we should at least inquire about
his condition."
Edward withdrew his hands; shrugged.
"Inquire if you wish. I'll have nothing to do with it."
Again Gideon was troubled. Edward's curt words
didn't quite fit with his expression. His cheeks were
flushed all at once. And Gideon thought he
detected a momentary half-smile on the actor's
mouth. Fan, gazing at her lap, didn't
notice.
"I'm going to bed," Edward announced.
Fan stood up slowly. "We all should. I'll
check to see whether the water's boiling-was
"I can pour the bath, Mama."
"No, let me. Oh, Gideon-was She rushed
to embrace him. "I'm so thankful you're safe!"
With a vehement nod, Edward said, less-than
4Those are my sentiments, too."
When Fan and her son separated, Edward walked
to Gideon's side and gripped his arm in a
comradely way. "Enjoy your rest. God knows
you've earned it forty times over."
"Thank you," Gideon said as Edward turned to
566The Murderer
leave. He struggled to keep his face blank. He
was startled by an odor he'd whiffed while Edward
stood close to him.
The actor bid them good night. On his
way out, he paused to touch the flag on the mantel.
His fingers caressed it almost reverently. Then he
left the parlor. A moment later, a door closed
down the hall.
Gideon followed his mother along the dark, lightless
corridor. Behind the bedroom door he heard
Edward humming softly. Suspicion flared in his
mind again. He nearly spoke to Fan but held
back at the last instant.
He carried the kettle of boiling water from the stove
to a corner of the kitchen. He filled the tin tub
while Fan hovered at his elbow. He kissed her
cheek and said good night. Presently the bedroom
door closed a second time.
He stripped off his filthy clothes and put one
foot in the tub. He yelped. The water was
scalding.
He clenched his teeth, held the sides of the tub and
lowered himself cautiously. After the initial shock, the
water was wonderfully relaxing.
Pleasant images of Margaret drifted behind his
closed eyelids. If she had her way-and he had
no plans to object-they'd be married before the
weekend. Tired as he was, the thought of the wedding
night aroused him. He deliberately
shifted his mind to the pressing and seemingly insoluble
problem of finding another mount.
He offered Margaret a mental apology for thinking
of horseflesh instead of her. But he was useless to the
army without a horse. And they were in short supply.
He also had no money to buy one.
No solution suggested itself. He let his mind wander.
Thought of Edward again.
He kept remembering Edward's good humor, minus
any hint of pique about long hours. The only
subject that had annoyed him was the mention of
Jephtha Kent
The Titans567
That didn't seem natural for a man who'd
labored at his job well into the night-
But had he?
Gideon wondered. He'd smelled Edward's
breath.
I can't imagine the Treasury serves refreshments
to clerks who stay late. And he said he came
straight home-
So why had Edward's breath carried the faint but
unmistakable odor of beer?
ii
At a quarter past nine on Wednesday
evening, darkness hid the magnificent statuary of
Capitol Square. In the dimly lit rotunda
of the Capitol itself a slow procession still moved past
the flower-covered biers of Bee and Bartow.
The evening was windy. Thunder muttered in the northwest.
Gideon and Margaret had just come from a short visit
with the rector of St. Paul's. Yes, he would be
glad to solemnize their marriage; he was grateful
for the opportunity to preside at a joyous event.
Too much sadness lay on Richmond in the wake
of the magnificent victory of Sunday past-
Holding Margaret's arm, Gideon walked toward
the intersection of Bank and Eleventh. For
protection after dark, he'd brought along one of his
Colts. The sight of it in his sash had produced
an awkward moment with the elderly churchman. But now
he noticed a group of scruffy-looking soldiers
loitering across the way; not the first they'd seen. He was
glad to have the weapon visible.
A hearse was passing as they reached Bank. The
horses wore black plumes. Two carriages
of mourners followed. The hearse and carriages
proceeded west on Bank-just one of dozens that had
journeyed to Holly
568The Murderer
wood Cemetery these past two days.
To accommodate the numerous families that had lost
loved ones, funerals were being scheduled from early
morning to well after dark.
Gideon and Margaret paused in front of the
granite bulk of the Treasury Building to watch the
cortege. All the Treasury's windows were dark.
Two gray-clad soldiers with muskets guarded the
entrance. Boys, Gideon thought with contempt, even
though the guards were only a year or two younger.
With a sad little shake of her head, Margaret gazed
after the disappearing carriages.
"What's wrong?" Gideon asked.
"I was just thinking about those poor people. I suppose
it's shameful for us to be so happy when so many others
are grieving-was
She leaned up to kiss him. "But I can't help
it."
"Nor I. And I don't imagine anyone will get
after us for being happy while we can."
"Gideon-was
"Yes?"
"Have you had any word of your father?"
"No. Mama hasn't inquired. She mentioned doing
it, but Edward's against it I imagine he's
right. My father's a prisoner of war. An enemy."
Something within him still protested the harshness of that
judgment. Earlier in the evening, he'd told
Margaret the whole story of the encounter at the
Washington hotel. She'd offered no comment until
now:
"The fact that he's your father is more important,
don't you think? Perhaps it's not my place to say it,
but I really believe you ought to find out whether he's
recovering."
"No, Margaret. We owe him nothing. He accused
my mother of scheming with Edward to get hold of the
California money. By means of murder-was
"There's no truth in that, of course."
The Titans569
"None," Gideon declared. Yet he couldn't
escape certain recollections that crept into his
thoughts at unexpected moments-particularly the
memory of Edward's pretending not to recognize
someone he'd previously admitted knowing. Twice,
Gideon had started to discuss the incident with Fan,
only to decide it would just upset her. She already had
enough problems coping with near-poverty because of Edward's
fanatical insistence on serving the cause.
Margaret asked, "Do you know where your father
is?"
"The City Almshouse."
"How did you find out?"
"It was in the Enquirer this morning. A lot of the
military prisoners and some of the civilians are
temporarily quartered at the Almshouse."
"If you wanted to, could you get in?"
"Not without a pass. The authorities are taking no
chances. There are too many angry people in Richmond.
Some of the wagons bringing in prisoners were stoned, you
know. Stoned and shot at-I'm sure I wouldn't be
allowed past the front door."
They were nearing Main. Gideon intended to leave
Margaret at La Mode Shoppe, where she and her
aunt would spend the rest of the night watching two
wounded Georgia infantrymen who were recuperating
on cots in the back room.
Margaret wouldn't drop the subject of Jephtha:
"Of course it's your affair. But I'd certainly
go to the Almshouse and ask about him."
Gideon held back a sharp retort. Since
Edward had shown hhii the paper and Fan had
suggested the same sort of inquiry Margaret was
endorsing, Gideon had in fact come close
to attempting to locate his father several times.
In spite of the accusations that had led to violence comor
perhaps because of them-he felt guilty about ignoring the
man who'd given him life. The fact that the
570The Murderer
man was a Yank, and a maniacal one, didn't
alter his feelings, even though he steadfastly said just
the opposite. It was a major admission
to murmur:
"Maybe you're right. Papa and I can never be
close again. But if he's dying, I suppose
finding out is the only decent thing to do."
The conflicting pulls-a hatred he couldn't quite
sustain; a guilt that grew increasingly
sharper-drove him to add:
"Perhaps I'll do it in a day or so."
"For certain?"
"No, I'm not ready to say that."
"You'd feel better if you were."
He didn't answer. He was ashamed to confess she
might be correct
in
Josiah Cheever occupied a room in a boarding
house a block from the Richmond, Fredericksburg
and Potomac depot. The room wasn't much
different from the squalid place where he'd
lived in Washington. At ten past nine that same
evening, he closed the filthy curtains and sat down
on a cane chair while Edward La- mont
unloaded papers from a worn satchel.
"This is the work I'm supposed to be doing tonight,
Lamont said as he stacked the papers on the bed.
"I'll leave it here and pick it up afterward. Along
with this-was
He held up a small milk-glass jar.
"Hair blacking. I'll need it again before I go
home."
"You've thought of everything," Cheever said.
"Preparation is the foundation of the actor's craft,
Josiah." Lamont stripped off his clean shirt.
Cheever licked his lips. His pointed face shone with
sweat. Excitement brightened his eyes.
Under the single pale gas fixture, Lamont went
to the
greater-than was
The Titans571
washstand. He bent, cupped water into his hands and
spilled it over his head. Within minutes, the basin was
stained by the blacking. More of it came off on a ragged
towel. Dried, Lamont's hair and mustache showed
pronounced streaks of gray.
"Hand me a piece of charcoal."
Cheever scuttled to the cold hearth.
Watching his image in the blurred mirror behind the
stand, Lamont daubed charcoal on his upper lip,
chin and throat. With the tip of his little finger he applied
a touch below each eye. He rubbed the charcoal
carefully until it blended with his day's growth of
beard. Then he added very light lines to the creases in
his forehead and alongside his nose. He blended these,
too, so they appeared natural. Cheever marveled
at the swift transformation. Lamont's face now
belonged to a man who got dirty in his work and
didn't bother to clean up. A few more applications
of charcoal, and Lamont's hands were equally grubby.
The actor snapped his fingers. "The clothes."
Cheever began pulling parcels from under the bed. He
unwrapped them one by one:
"Work boots. Homespun shirt. The duster-was
"What about trousers?"
"I couldn't locate an old pair exactly your
size."
"All right. I'll wear my own and smear mud on
them."
Proudly, Cheever held up a soft black hat
with a wide, floppy brim and a hole in the
crown. "This looks seedy enough, don't you think?"
Lamont laughed. "Perfect."
His hard, muscular chest showed his rapid breathing.
Like Cheever, his eyes shone with excitement. He
buttoned the coarse shut, donned the duster-"A little
tight, but it'll do." comthen exchanged his own clean
boots for the much older ones. As he tugged on the right
boot, he said:
572The Murderer
"Were you able to learn anything further about Kent's
condition?"
"I confirmed the report I got yesterday. Hell
definitely recover. But he's sleeping a good
deal."
"I hope your information's reliable."
"It is."
"I assume he'll be sleeping at this time of
night"
"Yes, I'd imagine so."
"Where are they keeping him in the Almshouse? I've
never been there before."
"The guards will direct you-was
"I like to know the plan of the stage, Josiahf Where
is he?"
"I-I'm not exactly sure. I only
know the soldiers are in wards, and the civilian
prisoners in separate cells. I can't be more
specific. I've never visited the Almshouse
either."
Unsatisfied, Lamont asked, "Will a guard
stay right outside the cell all the time?"
"Not according to my source. Naturally they'll search your
satchel when you go in. After that, you'll be pretty
much on your own. The guards don't much care what
happens to the prisoners. They're mostly young
recruits- full of piss and anger because the Yanks
are being given decent treatment."
"Anything else I should know?"
"You shouldn't encounter any medical personnel. The
surgeon in charge only calls in the morning. There
are no nurses-although from the number of pass
applications we've received at the War Department, it
seems dozens of our dear Richmond ladies can't
wait to hurry to the Almshouse to help relieve the
misery of the poor Yanks."
Lamont looked cynical. "Southern courtesy
does have its drawbacks. What about the pass?"
"Right here-was Cheever drew a folded paper from
The Titans573
the pocket of his food-spotted coat.
"It's been duly signed by the assistant
secretary-was
"You mean forged."
"After a good deal of practice, I don't mind
telling you. The countersignature's authentic."
He pointed to it. "Secretary Walker's. My
work passed the test."
Lamont glanced at the flowery handwriting, nodded and
slipped the paper in the pocket of his duster.
"Got the rest of the things?"
One more parcel came from beneath the bed. Lamont opened
his satchel to full width and reached down to smooth the
cloth in the bottom. The feel of the coarse fabric
sent a peculiar stir of anticipation through him; it was
almost like the anticipation before bedding a woman.
He really shouldn't have taken the article in the
bottom of the satchel. It had only caught his eye
at the last moment, as he was leaving the flat. Bringing
it along had struck him as the perfect touch of
theatrics; and appropriately symbolic as
well.
Fan had been out of the parlor when he took it. She
might notice its absence. He had no fears about
Gideon. He'd be gone all evening with his young
woman-
Though he'd acted impulsively, worrying wouldn't
change the situation now. Besides, the presence of the
stolen item in the satchel did lend the whole
proceedings a sharper edge of danger. A bit of
nervousness always improved an actor's performance.
Cheever handed him articles from the last parcel:
"Note paper-was
Lamont put it away.
"Pencils."
Again Lamont's hand dipped into the satchel.
"Cigars. I bought cheap ones-was
"Why be extravagant for a dead man?"
"comanda box of creams from Pizzini's."
"Oh, that's a nice fillip." Lamont laid the
wrapped
574The Murderer
candy away. Cheever reached for the soiled pillow at
the head of the bed. The actor shook his head:
"I don't need that."
"But there are no beds in the Almshouse. No
bedding. Will you use the duster?"
"Something else."
He smiled, relishing Cheever's befuddlement. After
a suitable delay, he patted the satchel:
"It's already packed away. I'll hide
it under my shirt before I get to the Almshouse."
"What is it, Edward?"
"I'll tell you afterward."
"You shouldn't vary the plan! We worked out every detail
so nothing would go wrong."
"Nothing will go wrongl" Lamont's loud voice
cowed the smaller man. "This item won't be
detected. They'll be hunting pistols and
knives-at least that's what you said."
"I'm fairly certain the search will be cursory,"
Cheever nodded.
"Then don't worry."
"Damn it, Edward, you owe me an explanation of
how you intend-was
"No!" Lamont interrupted. His dark eyes
glowed as he put on the disreputable hat, pulled
its brim low over his forehead and affected a stooping
posture. "Like any good actor, I owe you
suspense and a pleasing surprise at the final
curtain. I'll be back within two hours. And then
Mister-was
He pulled out the pass. Studied the name inscribed.
Blinking and twitching his lips, he modulated his
voice until it was shrill; raspy; rustic:
"comMr. Artemus McAfee of
Mechanicsville, Hanover County, will disappear
from Richmond forever- having given a single flawless
performance."
Cheever clasped his hand. "I'll be waiting."
The Titans575
Lamont was embarrassed because Cheever felt the
sweat on his palm.
He's right about changing the plan. I really shouldn't
have surrendered to that impulse and taken-
Nonsense! It would work perfectly. He would make
it work. Years of training and experience were on his
side. The danger was minimal. And the reward-
Breathing hard a moment, he remembered his aunt
axed down by that rabid, murdering nigger boy.
The reward was more than worth the risk.
"Good night to ye, sir," Lamont said with a
quirky smile. He touched his hat brim with two
fingers and slipped out the door carrying his satchel.
From the door, Cheever watched him go. A low,
cackling laugh echoed along the sour hallway as
Lamont clumped down the stairs in a perfect
imitation of a countryman's clumsy gait
IV
Fan hadn't expected her son home so early.
Gideon explained that Eliza Marble,
energetic as she was, had grown exceedingly tired
after tending the wounded Georgians for two nights.
Margaret had returned to the shop so her aunt could
rest. Both women were sleeping on the premises
until the visiting physician pronounced it safe
for them to leave their charges alone at night.
The Lamont flat was silent except for the wind
whining at the windows. Gideon pulled off his boots
and flopped in the chair that had become his favorite
resting place when he wasn't sleeping or spending
time with Margaret. Fan came back from the kitchen
where she was heating potato soup-thin, unsatisfying
stuff, she'd apologized. But the best she could
prepare given Edward's low salary.
576The Murderer
She halted in the parlor doorway, stricken
silent by her son's odd look.
Gideon was staring into the unlit hearth. Ever since
coming in a few minutes ago, he'd sensed something
wasn't quite right-
Maybe it's my own behavior, he thought
cynically. Margaret's remarks had accentuated his
guilt aljout Jephtha.
He raised his head as Fan approached, her
skirts rustling softly. She touched his
shoulder:
"Gideon, you look unhappy."
"Not really. Just been thinking."
"About what?"
"Well, I sort of hate to bring it up, but-was
After hesitating, he plunged ahead. "comMargaret
and I talked about Papa tonight."
Fan didn't seem upset, so he went on:
"Margaret thinks it's my duty to ask about him at
the Almshouse."
"You'll recall the same thing occurred to me when I
first learned he was a prisoner."
Gideon nodded in a troubled way. "One minute
I'm convinced you and Margaret have the right idea. The
next, all I can think of is that night in
Washington-was
"Have you been thinking a lot about your father?" Fan
asked softly.
"More than I like to admit. I keep wondering
whether-whether he's dying. Or if he needs anything
we could or should provide-was
"I'm a bit surprised at your concern."
"Are you angry?"
"No. I've been feeling the same way."
"Even after what he said about you?"
"Gideon, when a human being's hurt or facing
death, very little else matters. Especially not the
past."
He pondered that, then said:
"I told Margaret Papa and I could never be
close.
"i
The Titans577
He'll always be a stranger. And a deranged one,
at that."
Sitting, Fan murmured, "I wonder."
"What?"
She shook her head. "Go on."
Gideon shrugged. "There's nothing more to say. I just
can't decide whether Margaret's right."
Fan covered her eyes a moment. "I think she
is." A wan smile. "It's rather shameful that an
outsider should have to remind us of our
responsibilities."
"If we have any."
"I believe we do. Margaret strikes me as a very
kind and Christian young woman-was
Gideon didn't interrupt to tell his mother that
Margaret's willingness to concern herself with others had
only surfaced after a hard personal
struggle.
"comand you're very fortunate she wants to marry you."
"I'm glad you feel that way." He rubbed his
forehead. "If you don't mind, I'd like to settle
this business about Papa-was
"We should."
"I know he wouldn't want to see me even if I
could get into the Almshouse, which I can't. You need a
special pass from the War Department. But I could go
to the office and ask about him-was
He wanted her to agree. It astonished him, but he
did. Perhaps deep inside, there ran a
blood-river stronger than any of the divisive
currents of their yesterdays. He said suddenly:
"I could do it tomorrow."
"Yes," Fan whispered. "D. I know he isn't
one of us. But he-he was my husband and he is your
father."
"Then I'll go in the morning. I'm glad you
approve. While I was walking home, I nearly
decided that's what I wanted to do. I hesitated
to bring it up because I
578The Murderer
thought Edward would object-where is he, by the way?"
"Working."
Gideon's palms turned cold. "Where?"
"Why, at the Treasury."
"Mama, Margaret and I passed the Treasury coming
back from St. Paul's. There wasn't a light
burning in the building. Not one."
Confused, she stammered, "But, Gideon, he-he
told me his section had important documents
to transcribe for the President's signature first
thing in the morning."
"If that's true, his section is working somewhere else
tonight."
"He took his satchel-the one he carries every day.
I watched him pack it with papers, I-Gideon,
what are
you thinking?"
Scowling, he waved. "I'm not sure."
"Please-was She hurried to kneel beside him. He was
startled by the troubled expression in her gray-green
eyes. "For my sake, speak your mind."
"It's probably ridiculous, Mama. But a
few times, I've asked myself whether-was He
stopped. "No. I don't want to speak ill of
Edward-was
"Tell me, Gideon!"
He drew a deep breath. "All right.
I'll say this much. Sometimes I ask myself whether
Edward's always truthful. Monday night-Tuesday
morning-he said he'd been at the Treasury. He
claimed he came straight home. But he smelled
of beer."
"You noticed that." Her tone said he hadn't been the
only one. "Still, I don't suppose it's fair
to call a man dishonest because he stops for a drink without
telling anyone."
"There are some other reasons. I've thought about
Papa's accusations in Washington. I was convinced
he was out of his head with that story about a murder plot
to get control of the money Matt and Jeremiah and I
The Titans579
will inherit. Convinced, that is, until a name cropped
up in your letter. Cheever."
"Gideon-was A look of shame flickered in her
eyes. "I'm going to confess something to you." He
waited. "I've been suspicious of Edward
myself."
"Why?"
"It's the sum of a lot of little things. The way
Edwafrd and Mr. Cheever ignored one another on
the street-as if Cheever had never once set foot
in our hotel room-was
"Which he had."
"Of course. I wrote you that Edward lost his
temper when I questioned him about the incident. He
didn't deny knowing Cheever. How could he? But
he's refused to discuss it ever since. I've seen
Mr. Cheever a second time, however."
"When?"
"A week ago. Again on Main Street. He
didn't see me. I felt dishonorable, but I
turned around and followed him. To the War Department.
I approached one of the guards and made a discreet
inquiry. Cheever's in Richmond on a permanent
basis. He's working for the same government that
employs Edward-yet Edward saw fit to deny knowing
him, and I don't know why"
The wind pushed at the windows, setting up an eerie
whine. That was the moment when the pattern began to emerge
from scattered fragments of the past:
Edward's quiet fury whenever he spoke of the
Nergo boy who'd murdered his aunt.
Edward's hatred of the Yanks.
Edward's worry about the financial plight of the
Confederacy.
And Edward's professional skill; his ability
to simulate virtually any emotion or
attitude-
Add to that the apparent lie about working at the
Treasury tonight and the fragments formed a dreadful
whole. In his mind, Gideon posed the nearly
unthinkable question:
580The Murderer
What ij Papa wasn't lying?
He didn't dare voice the question to Fan. He
might still be imagining things. If he could only be
sure-to 
He hid his confusion by feigning a smile and chafing
her hands:
"Well, perhaps there's a proper explanation for the
business with Cheever. Anyway, visiting the
Almshouse is more important-was
She looked disappointed, as if she'd hoped he could
answer her questions. But he had too many of his own.
He had to get out of the flat. Think it through. He
jerked on his left boot:
"I need a bit of air. Keep the soup warm."
"When you came in, you said you were famished-was
"I am. I'll just take a turn around the block
and come right back."
He stamped his foot down in his right boot and stood
up. His eyes came level with the mantel.
Then he knew why he'd sensed something awry the
moment he walked into the parlor.
Fretting over the problem of his father, he hadn't been
alert enough to notice the flag he was duty-bound to send
to Miss Wonderly at White House. The chore
was so freighted with sad memories, he hadn't been
able to write the accompanying letter yet-
Now the flag was gone.
"Mama-was He pointed. "Did you move the
flag?"
Fan clambered to her feet. "Why, no. It was there
early this evening. It was there before Edward went-was
Round-eyed, she stared at him.
"Mama, what the hell is Edward up to?"
"I-I have no idea, Gideon, I-was
"No one else could have taken that flag."
"Certainly not. But why on earth would he-?"
"I don't know!"
"I'll get my shawl. Let me walk with you-was
He shook his head angrily.
The Titans581
"Why not?"
"Because I'm feeling damned uneasy all at
once-was He knew the rest would hurt her. He
couldn't help it:
"I'm going to the Almshouse right now."
"Oh, Gideon-was
Tears started in her eyes.
"comy don't imagine Edward-his You don't think
what your father said could possibly-?"
"I don't know. But what other explanation is there?
Maybe he really does want us to get control of the
California money-was
"He's never shown the slightest interest in that money!
Although-was
"Although what?"
Miserable, she forced out the rest:
"In Washington, he did express fear that your
father would try to deprive you and your brothers of the
inheritance-no! It still doesn't make sense!
Edward's always assured me he wants no part of the
money-was
Like a knife, intuition cut through to show Gideon a
motive:
"Maybe he doesn't want it for himself. Or for
us, either."
"Then for who-?"
"The government."
"Oh, God."
Her small voice was enough to convince him the
idea wasn't so far-fetched. No longer
hesitant, he exclaimed:
"That must be it! You know how strong he is about the
cause. Maybe he has some wild notion about
acquiring the money to support the war. He could be
working hand in glove with that Cheever to make himself a
hero to the whole damn Confederacy!"
"That's too terrible even to think abou-was
"No, it isn't. Finally it puts all the
details in place. Every one!"
Gideon's heart was beating fast. He despised
what he
582The Murderer
was saying because of the way it hurt her. He put his
arms around her. She was stiff; trembling.
"Mama, we've got to remember two things. First,
how much Edward despises the nigras and the
Northerners waging war for them. Second-before he
joined the Treasury, he earned his living deceiving people."
"Deceiving-?"
"Isn't that what an actor does? Isn't that
exactly what he does when he takes a part?"
Gideon wiped his mouth. "It may all be
ridiculous-totally unfair to him-was
"Yes. Yes" Fan said it as if she were
praying.
"Just the same, I'm going to the Almshouse."
He left her standing with her head bowed, in tears.
He ran down the stairs into the windy dark. He could
be as mad as his own father. Yet the theory he'd
proposed to Fan explained so much-
Patriot; actor. Edward was surely those. But
perhaps he planned to play one more role as well.
Murderer.
The City Almshouse was a sprawling,
multistoried building overlooking a weed-grown
cemetery where generations of the indigent-and a good number
of smallpox victims-had been buried. Strong
gusts of wind tugged at Edward Lamont's hat as
he climbed the steps of the main entrance.
His shoulders slumped like those of an old man. He
feigned nervousness as he presented his pass to a
guard-a boy with bad skin, an ill-fitting uniform
and a rusty musket. The boy was one of two
sentries on duty under the lanterns mounted above the
doors.
"I come to visit one of yer prisoners," Lamont
said, pleased with the high-pitched quaver he managed
to put
The Titans583
into his voice. "Didn't want to, but the
bastard's related to my wife."
He looked suitably respectful while the boy
examined the pass. The boy jerked his head at the
doors:
"You'll have to show this to the duty sergeant inside."
He indicated the satchel. "And have that searched. Your
clothes, too."
"Yessir, 'course. Thank ye much." Lamont
shuffled into the building.
Ancient benches lined the yellowing walls of the
large, dingy lobby. The old wood floor creaked.
From an open door on his left, a voice barked:
"In here."
A sergeant not much older than the guards studied his
pass, then handed it back and pushed a ledger across the
counter.
"Sign this."
Lamont deliberately dropped the pen, mumbled
an apology and scratched the words Art emus
McAfee, Mechanicsville, Hanover County
in handwriting next to illegible. In the
appropriate column he added the name of the
prisoner he'd come to see.
"It's a little late in the day for visiting,"
the sergeant complained as he rummaged through the
satchel.
"Yessir, I know. Like I told the young man
outside, I didn't want to come at all. Them
Yanks can die an" go to hell fer all I care.
But my wife, she's cousin to one of "em-was
The sergeant turned the ledger. "Kent-that
abolitionist reporter?"
"Yessir."
"I wouldn't go around bragging about it."
"No, sir."
The sergeant broke the ribbon on the box of
Pizzini creams and helped himself to one before he
replaced the lid. While he examined the rest of the
articles, Lamont fidgeted in a perfect
imitation of a semiliterate
584The Murderer
man awed by a uniform. At last the sergeant closed
the satchel and gestured:
"Come around the counter and raise your arms over your
head."
He searched Lamont's duster, then his pants
pockets. He thrust a hand carelessly beneath the duster
to pat the homespun shirt. That was the moment
Lamont sweated the worst. He'd bunched
the flag inside his un-derdrawers-
The sergeant's casual search didn't get that far.
"All right." The sergeant returned the satchel and
walked back to his desk on the other side of the
counter. "You're allowed fifteen minutes with him.
I expect the prisoner'll be sleeping, though."
"I don't even want to talk to the
son-of-a-bitch. I'll just leave off these yere things
my wife bought for him. I'm sure sorry to rout you
fellows out this way. I couldn't come no sooner.
Had to finish the evening chores-was
Bored, the sergeant was seated again and turning the
pages of a paper. He waved at the door:
"Go up the stairs to the third floor. Kent's in
one of the cells in the south wing. The guard on the landing
will unlock it for you."
Lamont touched his hat. "Much obliged." The
sergeant didn't glance up as he left the office.
The draughty, creaking hall smelled of
disinfectant. In case anyone was watching, he
clutched the sweat- blackened bannister and breathed
loudly as he labored up the staircase. On the
second floor landing, a laconic guard sat on
a stool. Large arched doorways revealed long,
dim rooms lit by a few gas
fixtures. In each room, rows of straw
pallets were arranged on either side of an aisle.
Men lay on the pallets. Lamont heard the
sounds of restless slumber; an occasional groan of
pain-
The guard inspected his pass. "On upstairs-was
In the ward to the left, a prisoner cried out.
"Shut up in therel"
The Titans585
Lamont had to force himself to go slowly up the final
flights. Excitement was mounting within him. It was working
perfectly-more perfectly than he'd ever imagined.
As Cheever had said, the callow guards didn't
care about the prisoners. Would just as soon see them
all die, probably-
I'll be happy to oblige. Won't be long till
they have one less Yank to worry about.
His confidence increased with every step. So did his
contempt for the guards. They were no match for a man
who'd played everything from a comic rustic to a Roman
senator. He'd be in, out and gone in less than
half an hour. The guards probably wouldn't
detect the death until morning-
The third floor guard took his pass, leaned his
musket against the wall behind his stool and
pulled a ring of keys off his belt. "Follow
me."
They walked through another of the shadowy wards.
Blue-uniformed men tossed on pallets. Some of the
Yanks wore foul-smelling bandages. At the end
of the ward the guard led him through a second arch and
turned right into another, equally dim corridor.
Lamont saw bolted doors along both sides.
The guard stopped at the fourth door on the left.
He peered through the small barred window, then slipped
a key into the lock and twisted it.
"Used to keep the crazy folks up here," he
explained as he unfastened the bolt below the lock.
"Did the sergeant tell you fifteen minutes-?"
"Right, sir. I don't aim to be here half that
long." The guard swung the door back. Lamont
entered the sour, narrow room lit by one gas
fixture.
The furnishings consisted of a stool, a straw pallet
and a slop jar in the corner near an unwashed window
overlooking the cemetery and the lighted hills of the
city. Lamont could barely control his excitement
at the
586The Murderer
sight of the man curled on his side on the
pallet. He recognized the black hair;
soiled black suit; swarthy skin. There was a
length of linen wrapped around Jephtha Kent's
head. He was breathing loudly.
Asleep.
"Want me to kick him in the head and wake him
up?" the guard asked.
"No, sir. I got no intention of talkin"
to him. Like I' splained to the other officers, he's
my wife's kin, not mine. I'm kinda winded from
all them stairs, though. I'll set a minute, then
unload the stuff my missus bought. After I
leave, you hep yourself to whatever you want." He opened
the satchel to display the contents. "There's candy.
Writin' paper. Some cigars-was
"Why, that's white of you, Mister-was
"McAfee, Artemus McAfee." Lamont
whispered it, fearful of waking Jephtha. This was the
critical moment. If the guard stayed-
But he didn't:
"Shoot the boh when you leave, Mr. McAfee.
I'll tend to the lock later. That sumbitch ain't
goin' no place. He ain't awake more'n four
or five hours every day."
Lamont played it for all it was worth:
"Is there any chance he's gonna die?"
"Don't think so. He ain't hurt that bad."
Glumly: "Oh."
"But once he's back on his feet, he still ain't
goin' anyplace."
"Good!"
"When you're finished, come back an' see me at the
landing. And bring me a couple of them cigars."
"Yessir-was Lamont bobbed his head. "Surely
will."
He waited until the guard tramped off down the
corridor. Silently, he put the satchel on the
floor.
He eased the door shut. Turned. Took two
steps.
The Titans587
Lifted the stool and placed it beside the pallet without
making a sound.
He sat down. He propped his elbows on his
knees and laced his fingers under his chin, gazing down at
the injured man. A smile broke the blankness of
his dirty face.
He'd never experienced such anticipation. Not even
waiting to make his very first professional entrance in a
Savannah theater years ago. He'd
never felt so fine-or so certain of success.
He sat studying Jephtha for perhaps a minute. Then
he reached into the waistband of his trousers and started
to pull out the bloody flag Gideon had brought
home from Manassas.
vi
"Listen!" the sergeant said from behind the counter. "There's
no visiting without a pass from Secretary
Walker's office!"
Testy, Gideon said, "I don't want to visit
Mr. Kent I just want to find out how he is."
The sergeant eyed Gideon's uniform. "What
unit you with?"
"Stuart's First Virginia Cavalry." He
touched the sash to make sure the sergeant understood who
outranked whom: "First lieutenant."
"You must have been at Manassas-was
"Yes, I was."
"Get hurt?"
"Lost my horse. It's practically the same
thing. You're wasting my time, Sergeant."
Gideon's sharpness made the other man more
respectful:
"Sorry, sir. You say this Kent is your pa?"
"That's right. I want to know how he's
getting alon-was
588The Murderer
"Sure a popular fellow, that Kent," the sergeant
interrupted. Gideon's blue eyes widened:
"What do you mean?" "He's already got one
visitor." "Now?"
"Yes, sir, the man's up in Kent's cell this
minute." Shaken, Gideon asked, "Who is
he?" "Some old fanner married to a cousin of the
prisoner-was
The sergeant spun the ledger. Gideon's belly
began to ache as the sergeant pointed out the
signature:
"McAfee of Hanover County. You must know him
if Kent's your daddy-was
"My father doesn't have any relatives in
Hanover County."
"How-how's that?" Confused, the sergeant tried
to grin. "But the old codger told me-was
"He was lying. I don't know who that man is."
But he did. He was sure he did. He spun
toward the door:
"Take me up there right now."
The sergeant gnawed his lip. "Lieutenant, I
can't do that. The farmer had a proper pass
from Walker's office. But you don't. I'm not
allowed-was
The sergeant yelped as Gideon's left hand shot
across the counter and fastened on his throat. With his right
hand, Gideon yanked the revolver from his sash. He
shoved the muzzle against the sergeant's chin:
"This says otherwise. Come around that counter and take
me upstairs backslash was
"Jesus Christ, Lieutenant, you'll be arrested
for pulling something like thi-was
Gideon jerked the man by the throat, slamming his
belly against the edge of the counter. The sergeant
exclaimed in pain.
Gideon gouged the Colt's barrel into the
sergeant's
The Titans589
X
left cheek. The man's eyes rolled toward the
gun. Sweat beaded his face.
"You take me up there," Gideon repeated. "If
we meet any guards, you tell them to stay away
or I'll blow your head off."
The sergeant started to protest. Then he looked
into Gideon's eyes. What he saw there made him
draw a loud breath. Slowly, he lifted
a quaking hand:
"All right. All right. Just don't fire that piece
accidentally. You'll have to let go so I can come around the
counter-was
Seated on the stool, Lamont watched Jephtha
Kent grimace in his sleep; turn his head
slightly on the filthy straw.
Time was passing quickly. Lamont knew he'd already
stayed longer than necessary. But the moment was too
precious to waste. He wanted to savor it; fix it
in his mind so he could recall every detail of his
accomplishment in the years to come.
He'd succeeded beyond all expectation. Let them
search the whole damn South for Mr. Artemus
McAfee. Let them search till the trumpets of
judgment blew! No one would ever connect Edward
Lamont with the elderly farmer-or with the death. God,
it had worked brilliantly-to 
Lamont toyed with the blood-stained Stars and Bars.
Stroked it. Kneaded it. He was glad now that he'd
given in to the impulse. He couldn't have found a more
fitting way to end the Me of the man at his feet.
He stood up.
Jephtha Kent stirred. Muttered in his sleep,
then shuddered. Tense, Lamont watched
Jephtha's eyelids flutter.
590The Murderer
Christ! he woke up now-
He inhaled silently and held the breath.
Seconds passed-
A half minute.
A minute.
His chest hurt. Suddenly Jephtha uttered a sound
that was half sigh, half groan. His restless
movement stopped. His eyelids were still.
Lamont expelled the breath in a barely audible
hiss. Carefully, he squatted down and laid the
flag on his right knee.
He stretched out his left hand. Grasped the satchel
standing by the slop jar. Pulled it-
The scrape of the satchel across the floor seemed
incredibly loud. But Jephtha didn't rouse.
Dipping his hand into the satchel, he found three
cigars. He transferred them to a pocket of his
duster. So much for the guard.
Hands perfectly steady, Lamont picked up the
flag. Folded it until he had a pad of
sufficient thickness. He could feel little lines of
sweat running down his cheeks and neck. Still moving with
extreme caution, he knelt beside
Jephtha's head.
The gaslight flickered. Wind hummed the dirty
windowpanes. Thinking of his beloved aunt, he
cupped the folded flag in his left hand and closed his
right on Jephtha Kent's throat.
vui
Instantly, the man on the pallet woke.
Lamont pressed the folded flag over
Jephtha's face, covering his eyes, nose and
mouth. Jephtha's right hand groped out. He
groaned; thrashed his legs-
Lamont put more pressure on the flag. His other
hand gripped Jephtha's neck like a claw.
The Titans591
Not too hard! Mustn't leave marks-
Jephtha couldn't see him; could only feel him.
His fingers closed on Lamont's left leg. But
feebly. He was still too weak to offer much resistance,
even though he must know he was dying-
Thick, croaking sounds came from beneath the flag.
Lamont pressed harder.
Jephtha kicked against the straw. Lamont could
barely hear the thumping. A roaring filled his ears;
like the sound of a powerful, cleansing wind-
Jephtha's nails dug into his trousers.
Lamont pressed and choked, breathing in spasmodic
gasps. The sweat trickling down his face smeared
the blacking and made it run.
He felt exhilarated. Exalted. Almost unaware
of Jephtha's legs drumming louder and faster.
Odd, how loud the hammer of Jephtha's boots
sounded. Lamont didn't look at them. He
couldn't pull his eyes from the head he held motionless
with the grip of his right hand and the weight of his left.
Jephtha's hand fell away from the actor's leg.
Almost gone, Lamont thought. A moment more and he'll
stop making that racket with his boots-
Suddenly a line came to mind. China's line,
spoken immediately after Caesar's assassination.
Lamont's lips peeled back from his teeth. He
whispered joyfully:"
'Liberty!""
He pressed harder.
was "Freedom!""
Choked harder.
was Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim,
cry it about the streets!""
"You murdering son-ofabitchf"
With a scream, Lamont tumbled over on his side.
Gideon's boot smashed into his ribs a
second time.
Lamont's hat fell off. His eyes flared with
fear as he
592The Murderer
crawled away from that incredible figure looming above
him, revolver in hand.
Behind Gideon-oh, God help me-Lamont saw
the sergeant from the lower floor and the guard from the third
floor landing. It was the noise of their coming he'd
heard, not Jephtha's boots slamming the floor.
He'd been too caught up in the deed; too
carried away to realize-
Gideon's blue eyes shone with a pitiless fury.
On the pallet, Jephtha Kent rolled his head from
side to side. Tried to sit up, gulping air. His
eyes were still closed.
Gideon lunged at Lamont. Tore the flag out
of his hand. Drew his other arm back and whipped
Lamont across the face with the barrel of the Colt.
Lamont reeled back, upsetting the slop jar.
"Gideon, please-was
Lamont held up his hands.
""Pleasel Listen to me! I don't know how you
got here, but I-I'm only giving him what he
deserves-was
Lamont pushed up with both hands, stood
unsteadily. Though he was frightened, he managed a
little more strength in his voice:
"After he's gone, the money will be yours."
"That was it-was Gideon was trembling so hard, he could
barely speak. "The money-was
"For you. For your brothers-was
"Bullshit."
Lamont took a step backward, terrified by the
yell from the young man with the revolver in one hand and the
flag clenched in the other.
"All right!" Lamont screamed. "For the government!
That's why I wanted it-to help the cause.
Gideon, he's a Yank. A nigger-loving
Yank! Think of what the money could do! You know how
badly the government needs help-was
He wiped his mouth, watching the muzzle of the
revolver. Red-faced, Gideon thrust out the
flag:
The Titans593
"And you meant to do it with this? Dishonor this with a murder?
It's already got blood on it, you bastard. The
blood of a decent man who did his killing openly-
good God in heaven! I never realized how sick you
are."
Lamont knew he was trapped then. He lost
control; screamed like a woman:
"The cause comes before everything!"
"No," Gideon said. "No, that's wrong."
"If you deny it, you're not loyal, you're a
traitor!"
Color drained from Gideon's face.
"I'm a Southerner," he whispered. "A
Southerner, Lamont-not a murderer. You don't
understand the difference."
Silence. The actor wanted to cry. He was
finished.
Gideon kept staring at him, tall and hot-eyed and
vengeful.
Finished. Unless-
In a space of seconds, he began to breathe
faster. Unless.
He dove for the satchel. Caught the handle and
swung the bag with all his strength.
Gideon jerked the trigger. The wild shot plucked
at Lamont's duster and tore a long furrow in the
stained wall. The satchel smashed against Gideon's
head.
The satchel wasn't heavy. But the blow made
Gideon stumble. Lamont saw his chance.
If he could get past the guards outside the door-
He ran. Gideon dropped the revolver and the
flag. Grabbed the hem of Lamont's duster.
Fabric tore.
Screeching and kicking, Lamont drove a knee
into Gideon's crotch. The younger man yelled,
doubling over.
Lamont crowded him to the wall. Shoved his right
palm against Gideon's face, slammed his head
against the plaster, hard:
I'll kill him if I have
594The Murderer
Somehow Gideon managed to free his right arm. He
pounded his fist into Lamont's stomach.
Gagging, the actor reeled back. He clutched his
belly. Gideon's anger was beyond control. He
seized the lapels of Lamont's duster; jerked
him; hurled him-
Frantically Lamont windmilled his arms. His
boots slipped in the mess from the overturned jar.
Off balance, he floundered backward. He had a
distorted glimpse of Gideon's stunned eyes.
Then his spine struck the window.
Glass shattered. His nails scratched for a hold
on the frame; found none-
He shrieked as a piece of glass slashed the
back of his hand, ripping a vein. Blood spouted-
And there was nothing behind him.
He tumbled into the darkness, the wind howling in his ears
as he fell toward the ground three floors below.
CHAPTER XI
"And If a House Be Divided-was
"LIEUTENANT KENT? The President is ready
to receive you."
Gideon stood up and stepped away from the bench in the
second-floor corridor of the Treasury
Building. He'd been fretting there more than two
and a half hours while haggard aides shuttled
back and forth between their offices and the President's
suite.
It was the Friday morning following Edward's death.
Gideon was extremely nervous about the forthcoming
interview. He'd been summoned to it without prior
warning, and given no hint of its purpose. Even
if he got through the interview without difficulty,
there'd be no respite in the afternoon. Edward's
burial service was scheduled to begin at two.
Fan had borne the tragedy with surprising strength.
He knew the events of Wednesday night had
affected her deeply, however. Not just the
death, but the circumstances surrounding it-especially the
swift action by the investigating authorities
to suppress the truth in the papers. Someone high in
the government had reached the press and won cooperation.
The published reason for Edward Lamont's death was
an accidental slip on the stairs of the building where
he lived.
Gideon had explained to his mother that he hadn't
meant to kill Edward, only to prevent him from
murdering Jephtha and escaping. He spared himself to a
certain extent during the explanation. He didn't
tell Fan

n
5968And If a House Be Divided-"
he was furiously angry when he caught Edward and
flung him so that he stumbled and crashed through the
Almshouse window.
Fan accepted Gideon's story without question. She
showed no rancor. Yet he still felt uncomfortable
about having to sit through prayers and a sermon at St.
Paul's and accompany his mother to the grave already being
prepared out at Hollywood. Thank God
Margaret had agreed to be at his side during the
ordeal.
This morning he'd polished his saber and attempted
to clean and repair his uniform for the interview. But he
still felt shabby as he followed the man who had
summoned him. They entered a gaslit office. Before
the man closed the door to an adjoining room,
Gideon caught a glimpse of the President's
secretary working his way through a gigantic stack of
papers.
The man retired via the main corridor, leaving
Gideon at attention in front of an imposing
desk. Behind it stood the leader of the Confederacy,
Jefferson Davis.
Outside the office windows, gray clouds pressed
down on Richmond, dulling the day. Davis
turned from one of the windows. Gideon gave him a
crisp, correct salute.
The President gestured. "Please be seated,
Lieutenant."
Awkwardly, Gideon maneuvered his saber and
took a chair. He felt awe in the presence of the
slim, well dressed man in his early fifties.
Davis had strong features, including a
particularly firm-looking mouth. He carried himself
with perfect erectness-probably a heritage from his
days as a soldier.
The President sat down at his cluttered desk.
The desk's only ornamentation was a small
miniature in a gold frame; a portrait of a
handsome, dark-haired woman at least fifteen years
younger than the President.
Gideon recognized Varina Howell Davis
instantly. He'd seen her at the Spotswood
twice this week. She
The Titans597
was the President's second wife; a woman for
whom the citizens of Richmond had a high regard.
Along with almost everyone else in the city, Gideon
knew her background, as well as that of her
predecessor.
Jefferson Davis had married his first wife against the
protests of her father, Zachary Taylor. The former
President had been Davis" commanding officer at
the frontier post where the couple met
Davis had resigned his commission so he and his
bride wouldn't be subjected to the personal and
professional harassment of an unforgiving father.
Happy though the marriage might have been, it was not a
long one. Davis took his wife home to his
plantation on the Gulf of Mexico, near
Biloxi, Mississippi There she
contracted malarial fever and died. After a suitable
period as a widower, he'd courted and wed young
Varina Howell.
The second Mrs. Davis came of a fine
family of Virginia Whigs; people with important
political connections in the North. One of her
grandfathers had been governor of New Jersey.
There were frequent jokes about the affectionate
relationship of the President and his wife. He
called her Winnie; her pet name for him was
Banny. And though Mrs. Davis had a
romantic streak in her nature, no one questioned her
intelligence. Or her courage. She was the one
who'd accepted the responsibility of relaying the
telegraphed news of widowhood to her close friend
Mrs. Bartow.
The President reached for a file buried beneath several
others. Gideon crossed and uncrossed his
ankles, conscious of scuffs he'd been unable
to polish off his boots.
He was surprised at how fit Davis looked.
Everyone knew of his nervous dyspepsia. And although
his cheeks displayed a certain hollowness, his hair was
still quite dark, parted on the side and worn long in
back.
5988And If a House Be Divided-was
Davis opened the file and leafed through its contents for a
moment. Then he lifted his gaze to his visitor.
It was impossible for Gideon to tell that one of those
clear, intense gray eyes-the left, he
recalled-was blind.
"Lieutenant Kent, I believe you've already been
informed that no charges will be lodged against you- even though
you entered the Almshouse at gunpoint, without
official permission. As it turns out, there was good and
sufficient reason."
"I was told there'd be no charges, sir. But I'm
relieved to hear you say it. I didn't intend for
Mr. Lamont to fall. My first consideration was
preventing a killing."
"As you stated in the presence of the guards-was Davis
consulted a paper from the file. "Something to the effect
that Southerners are not murderers. I applaud you for
that. I'm no more fond of the Yankee prisoners
than you are. That doesn't condone an attempt
to kill one of them, however."
He drew out another sheet. "I'm sure you're
wondering why I sent the messenger to your mother's
flat, asking you to stop here."
"Yes, sir."
"I felt I owed you a personal report on the
disposition of the case. I apologize for making you
wait, but I was attending an important conference."
His words had a rather abrupt quality; there was an
unmistakable air of authority about the man. He
assumed Gideon would accept the explanation without
question. Gideon did.
"After Mr. Lamont's death and your deposition for the
authorities," Davis went on, "we
apprehended and interrogated Mr. Cheever-was
A crudely scrawled paper rustled in Davis'
hand:
"He made a full confession. He and Lamont
had indeed concocted a scheme to do away with your father.
The Titans599
The scheme dates back at least to April, when a
first attempt was carried out during the Baltimore
riot. The object of the scheme-as you suspected and
Cheever subsequently admitted-was to transfer
control of certain financial holdings to you and your
brothers. I gather the transfer only becomes
effective upon your father's death."
"That's correct," Gideon said. He explained
briefly about the California gold properties
belonging to the Kents.
"The Kents," Davis mused. "I wondered if
the name was a coincidence. Is the prisoner related
to the family that publishes that vile newspaper he
works for?"
"The New York Union?" Reddening, Gideon
nodded.
"Mm. Well-to continue. Cheever told us your
stepfather intended to persuade you, your mother and your
brothers to permit a certain percentage of the
inheritance to be tunneled into our Treasury-though I
fail to understand how he meant to transfer bullion
between warring territories."
"I'm not sure he even thought that far-was Gideon
began.
"Possibly not. Mr. Lamont was evidently a
self-styled patriot-?"
"Yes."
Davis" mouth showed distaste. "Not the sort with whom
I care to have this government associated- though God
knows I'll take every bit of money we can get."
Quietly: "Except blood money."
He cleared his throat. "The two conspirators were
evidently aware of my feelings. Cheever
admitted the source of this new-found wealth was never
to be revealed to the Treasury Department.
The money was to be turned over by intermediaries."
"Did Cheever reveal their names?"
6008And If a House Be Divided-was
"No. He was too terrified to do that-even under the
somewhat-ah-rigorous questioning to which he was subjected.
In any case, Cheever and your stepfather clearly
hoped that within a few months, your family could be
persuaded to go along with the plan, at which time they would
begin passing funds to the donors whose names would
appear on the record. I assume those donors
would have to be wealthy men in their own right. Otherwise
their sudden generosity would be suspect-was
"Perhaps that's why Cheever was afraid to reveal their
names."
"Undoubtedly." Davis closed the file. "That
appears to be the essence of the plot. I'm sorry
to tell you no formal charges will be filed against
Cheever. Thanks to your actions at the Almshouse,
no murder was done. And in return for his confession it
was agreed he would not be prosecuted as an
accessory. But Mr. Cheever has been dismissed
from Secretary Walker's department. In fact
he's left Richmond-under armed escort. He'll
never again be permitted to hold any post in this
government. Nor any military rank,
even noncommissioned. Should he choose to enlist under
an assumed name-which I expect is unlikely,
given his devious and cowardly character-there's nothing we can
do to prevent it. But we don't want his kind serving
our new state. Our cause is just, our basis for
separation is Constitutional, and I like to believe we
are honorable men. For that reason-was
Davis reached to the bottom of the file and withdrew an
official-looking paper.
"comI have, this morning, signed your father's parole."
"A parole!" Gideon exclaimed-, unable
to contain his surprise and pleasure. "I was certain
he'd be kept in prison."
"Technically he should be. But he's been
grievously
The Titans601
treated. And he's not without a certain degree of
influence in Northern newspaper circles-was"
Davis tented his fingers. "My motives aren't
entirely pure I feel that if your father's paroled,
he may be slightly less inclined to write about us
as barbarians- rebellious traitors. We can
use a few temperate voices speaking for us in the
North. Of course, I hope I've made clear
I also consider your stepfather's scheme
unforgivable. My sense of fair play demands
satisfaction. Cleansing of guilt, if you
prefer." Davis laid the document on top of the
file.
"Naturally the parole won't be publicized. And
it's conditional to this extent. If your father doesn't
pledge his word to withhold the frankly scandalous
reasons behind the parole, he'll be detained in
Richmond. I don't want a word about
Lamont's plot published. It could do us
irreparable harm-especially in the European
press. All in all-was Davis shrugged. "I
believe it's an equitable arrangement, and one to which
I hope hell be a party. All of the civilians
will be exchanged eventually. Your father's early
release won't cause too much gossip-
provided he doesn't create it himself."
"What if he won't cooperate, Mr.
President?"
"Then I'll make an exception when the rest of the
paroles are arranged, and hell be kept in
Richmond for the duration of the war. I certainly hope
that won't be necessary. Of course I have no idea of
how he'll react to my proposal."
Gideon was candid: "Neither do I. I
tried to speak to him at the Almshouse, but he was
only half conscious. He's not fully recovered.
I haven't been back to visit him since
Wednesday evening. My mother's demanded most of my
time-was
"Well, when he is himself again-the physicians
assure me it will be within a week or two-and if he
greater-than was
6028And If a House Be Divided-"
agrees to my terms, I intend to assign you the
task of transporting him north."
"To Washington City?"
"As close as practicable." Davis smiled.
"Our mounted picket lines reach almost to the
Potomac thanks to General McDowell's
disastrous performance. And you're temporarily detached
from Colonel Stuart's cavalry after what I
understand was gallant service at Manassas-was
"Detached and horseless," Gideon said.
"I'll arrange for a wagon and a team. That should
make the journey a little easier on your father. You'll
have to return the wagon, however. And both horses."
Gideon was elated. Davis' clemency, and his
disgust with Lamont's scheming, might go a long way
toward changing some of Jephtha's ideas about
the so-called traitors of the South.
From a personal standpoint too, he was relieved.
Jeph- tha Kent remained on the other side of the
conflict. But Gideon, was still guilt-ridden because
he'd turned on Jephtha; struck him that night
at the National Hotel. To balance that act
Gideon wanted to see freedom granted to the man
who would forever be something of a stranger to him, yet who
could never be wholly a stranger because of the blood binding
them together-
A tap at the door of the adjoining office turned
Davis in his chair. The secretary looked in:
"Excuse me, Mr. President. Just a reminder
about your meeting with Attorney General Benjamin."
"Yes. Thank you."
The President's quick nod dismissed the secretary.
The door closed. Davis stood up and smiled:
"I hear you plan to be married soon,
Lieutenant."
"That's correct, sir." Gideon rose.
"To Miss Margaret Marble of this city."
The Titans603
"I told Winnie-Mrs. Davis-was A gesture
at the framed miniature. "comab the events at the
Almshouse. She was quite taken with your
courage and resourcefulness. I believe she'd like
to be present for the wedding. Would you favor us with an
invitation?"
Flustered, Gideon stammered, "Why-why, yes-
naturally I-we-my Lord!" He blushed.
"Excuse me, sir. We'd be honored."
"Count on it, then. Now that you've been fortunate
enough to find a bride, I hope you'll be equally
successful
in finding something that's become just as important
as a wife." Davis' good eye twinkled. "I'm
referring to a
horse. Don't tell your fiancee."
"The horse is a definite problem, sir. I
haven't solved it yet. I understand there are
animals for sale illegally-was
"Yes, the damn profiteers are working in Richmond
just as I'm sure they're working up north."
"But I can't afford their prices."
"Well, I do hope you discover some way to secure
another mount. Colonel Stuart's cavalry is
an admirable unit. Young men like you and the colonel
are the bright hope of this government. The North has
its millions of people-its immense factories. We
have more limited resources, and fewer
citizens. But if you are representative of them,
and I think you are, I have no doubt of our eventual
victory. Not military victory, necessarily.
I'd prefer a peaceful acknowledgement of our
legal right to exist as a separate nation-was
His expression grew even more sober. "That is the one
thing I want the North to acknowledge. Our legal
right."
Gideon nodded much too vehemently. But he
wanted to please Davis because he'd been so generous.
"You're entirely correct, sir," he said.
"We've got to make them acknowledge we haven't
committed treason.
6048And If a House Be Divided-was
And we don't dare lose in the field before they do,
or I expect they'll hang us."
"They'd hang me, certainly," Davis
murmured.
He gazed out the window at the gray clouds above
Richmond's rooftops. Then, moving slowly, he
accompanied Gideon toward the door to the
corridor.
"Of course, we're not committing treason at all.
We're only doing what our American ancestors
did in the last century-was He pondered a
moment. "Any people, anywhere, so inclined and having the
power, have the right to rise up and shake off the existing
government and form a new one that suits them better.
That's a most valuable and sacred right-a right which I
hope and believe can liberate the world."
With one hand on the filigreed knob of the door,
Jefferson Davis looked Gideon in the eye.
"Nor is that right confined to cases in which all the people of
an existing government may choose to exercise it.
Any portion of such people that can, may revolutionize
comand make their own of-as much of the territory as they
inhabit."
Overwhelmed that he'd been allowed to share the
President's thinking to such an extent, and anxious
to have Davis know he agreed, Gideon exclaimed:
"I've never heard the argument for our cause put so
perfectly, Mr. President."
Davis was amused. "Nor y
The reply stunned Gideon. He hadn't
suspected the chief executive of such blatant
egotism.
Davis waved:
"Oh, the words aren't mine. I was merely quoting a
certain gentleman who spoke on behalf of the
Texas rebellion against Mexico in
forty-eight. The gentleman was serving his first term in
Congress-was
He clapped Gideon on the shoulder. Yet there was
a certain melancholy in his tone when he added:
"His name was Lincoln. Good morning,
Lieutenant."
The Titans605

Eight days later, toward four o'clock on a
drizzly, humid afternoon, Lieutenant Gideon
Kent reined in the team and brought the wagon to a halt
at a road junction some three miles southwest of
Washington City.
Four Confederate cavalrymen jogged toward the
wagon. Gideon recognized two of them. The
trooper in charge was a sergeant of K Company,
First Virginia.
He examined Gideon's papers, which bore the
signature of the President himself. The sergeant's
companions were more interested in the black-haired,
cigar- puffing civilian seated next to Gideon.
The sergeant seemed displeased by the documents
Gideon had presented:
"Lieutenant, this man has the same last name as
yours-was
"What about it?"
"He's no kin, is he?"
"He's my father."
The cavalrymen exchanged surprised looks. The
sergeant's reply bordered on insolence:
"We got to let him go on your say-so?"
Irked, Gideon pointed to the papers. "Not mine.
The President's."
Jephtha reached into the wagon for an old
portmanteau he'd been given at the time of his
release from the Almshouse. The motion stirred the
cloud of cigar smoke around his head. The smoke
moved slowly in the damp air. The sergeant sounded
even more hostile:
"Says here the wagon stays-was
"I'm taking it back to Richmond."
"Then the prisoner'11 have to ride shank's mare the
rest of the way."
6068And If a House Be Divided-was
"He's not a prisoner any longer."
"Hell be lucky if he gets into Washington
aty," another of the soldiers said. "Them Yanks
are so damn scant of an invasion, they pull up
planks on all the bridges ever night."
"Are there enemy troops between here and the
river?" Gideon wanted to know.
"No, just a few of ours." Again the sergeant eyed
Gideon. "That's an I Company uniform you're
wearin', isn't it?"
"Correct."
"You detached from duty?"
"You want to try saying, "sir, once in a while,
Sergeant?"
The other man's cheeks darkened. "Sorry, sir.
Just sort of forgot-was
"Hell you did. Yes, I'm detached until I
find a horse. I lost mine at Manassas.
Are there any other personal questions I can answer for
you?"
Scarlet, the sergeant said, "No, sir." He
touched his cap and wheeled his men away down the road
leading left from the junction.
Gideon sat still, staring past the team toward the
mist-covered hills gray as the sky above them. A
farmhouse and trees in the distance were dark blurs in a
darker world.
The journey up from Richmond had been an
uncomfortable one; and not just physically. Gideon and
his father had conversed along the way. But always about
inconsequential topics. Each acted
wary of the other; almost overly polite. Then- talk
had been the talk of strangers thrown together for a few
hours by circumstance.
Jephtha flipped the butt of his cigar into a pool
of water at the roadside. "Torn-up planks
or not, I'll be in the capital by dark."
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Gideon hoped so. His father was still weak, and looked
it. His normally swarthy complexion had a wan
cast. But he acted cheerful as he hoisted the
portmanteau and climbed down into the mud on the right
side of the wagon.
r
Gideon looped the reins over the brake lever and
jumped down on the left. Both men walked forward,
then halted, the heads of the horses separating them.
Gideon couldn't find the words to ask for the forgive-
ess he wanted so badly.
A light rain pattered on the wagon's canvas
top. The left-hand horse stamped, slopping mud
on Gideon's faded light-blue trousers. It was
Jephtha who broke the strained silence:
"I do appreciate your company all the way up
here, Gideon." He rubbed a hand across his mouth.
"I'd better be going along-was
"If we can believe those troopers, I don't
expect you'll run into any danger from here to the
river."
Jephtha grimaced as he eyed the hills. "Why,
no. Everyone in Richmond said our boys are
sitting in Washington drunk and demoralized, or
praying the new hero of western Virginia, that young
McClellan, can bring some order out of the shambles of the
Division of the Potomac. Lincoln certainly
dumped poor McDowell fast enough."
"The night after the retreat from Centreville, the
paper said-was
Idle talk. Empty talk. Gideon hated it.
There was so much that needed to be said, and he didn't know
how to begin.
Jephtha faced him, laying his left hand on the
neck of the restless horse. The hand moved back and
forth, calming the animal.
"I don't expect we'll see each other again
soon. I owe
6088And If a House Be Divided-was
you my life, just as I owe Davis my freedom.
I've turned into such a cussed Yank, I never
imagined I'd be thanking two Southerners-even if
one is my own son."
Both tried to smile.
Suddenly Jephtha walked around the horses and
gripped Gideon's arm.
"You have a lovely wife. I'm happy I was
permitted to attend the wedding-even if I did sit
there with a guard on either side. Damnedest marriage
service I ever saw! All that kneeling those
Episcopalians do-a Yankee prisoner and the
President of the Confederacy and his wife in the
pews-and that poor old cripple, drunk as a lord
and wheeling that little platform in the aisle when he gave
the bride away. Bizarre-that's the only word for
it." He added softly, "But I'm glad I was
there."
Gideon looked into his father's eyes. "I am
too."
"Davis was damned decent to me. He came up
afterward and expressed his regrets about what happened
at the Almshouse. I do wish I'd had a chance
to speak with your mother alone, though. I wanted to offer
something more than what I said in public-worn-out words
of condolence. Tell her-tell her I'm genuinely
sorry Lamont died."
"Are you?"
"Yes. It would have been better if he'd
just been arrested. I know Fan loved him. I know
he must have had good qualities or she wouldn't have
married him. Tell her also that I don't want her
to feel guilty about La- mont's plan. She was
deceived."
Gideon nodded in a glum way. "So were we
all."
"I'm glad your mother's going back to Lexington.
She'll be safer there-was
That irked the younger man:
"You're still positive Richmond will fall, aren't
you?"
The Titans609
Jephtha smiled. "There's that Virginia blood.
It's what makes some of the Kents so feisty-and you a
good cavalryman, I don't doubt."
The smile faded. "Yes, Gideon, I know
Richmond will fall. Along with the whole Confederacy.
If not next month, then next year. It's
inevitable."
"I don't agree with-was
"Listen to me a minute. On the Sunday morning
before I rode out to Cub Run in that rented buggy,
I ate breakfast with a colleague. British
fellow, name of Billy Russell.
He's over here for the London Times. He went out
to Cub Run, too, but I gather he got back
safely. Anyway, Russell's a little pompous,
but he's a smart fellow. Especially on the
subject of warfare. He was in the Crimea for the
Times, among other places. He gave me his
opinions about the war-starting with people. There are five and a
half million whites in the South-six and a half
if you add in some in the border states that haven't
seceded. Balance that against twenty-one million in the
North. That alone means the Confederacy can't win.
Russell said something else interesting. He
predicted this would be a war unlike any other ever
seen on the face of the earth before. Not even numerical
strength counts as much as the equation of your men against our
machines."
"You mean Northern factories."
"Yes. There are other new ingredients, too.
Railroads comlook at the Bull Run battle.
If Johnston hadn't shipped men out of the Valley
by rail, the outcome might have been entirely
different. The armies have telegraphs now.
Communication is much faster. It could decide an
engagement. Russell called it war on a
titanic scale. The first in history. And
all the advantages- except maybe plain
courage-are on the side of the North."
6108And If a House Be Divided-was
Gideon scowled. "I intend to do my best to prove
Mr. Russell's judgments are wrong."
"I wouldn't expect you to do anything else."
Gideon was astonished to hear admiration in his father's
voice.
Silence again. Rain splashed softly in the
roadside pools. In the distance, a clatter of
hoofs indicated mounted men on the move, unseen in
the mist. Gideon was sick of the quibbling about the war.
Time was running out.
"Papa-was
"What is it?"
"I want you to know one thing before you go. I-I'm
deeply sorry for hurting you in Washington."
Jephtha waved. "It's forgotten. Completely!
Don't forget I wouldn't be here if it weren't for
you."
"And don't you forget Edward isn't all there is
to the South. Nor Grandpa Tunworth either. I
don't want you to spend your life thinking every man in
the Confederacy's a monster."
Jephtha shook his head. "I won't."
His father turned his head. Rain got in his eyes.
At least Gideon assumed so, because Jephtha
wiped the corners with the back of his hand.
"I told you before, Gideon. Time changes people.
Once I was a zealot like Lamont. Perhaps not quite
ready to commit murder for what I believe, but a
zealot all the same. Unforgiving of anyone who
didn't see eye to eye with me on the slave question.
I haven't changed my thinking about the institution,
mind you, but I have a different view of some of the people who
defend it- or should I say the people who have been forced
to defend it? You helped accomplish the change.
Davis, too. You know, it's peculiar, our standing
here like this-a father and his boy on opposite sides of the
quarrel. We share the same blood, but not the same
ideas. I don't
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believe in what you're fighting for and I never will. But
I'm proud of you-was
A rueful smile:
"Rebel or not, you're a Kent to the bone."
He sighed.
"Too much has happened for us to ever be close, I
expect. But we mustn't hate each other any more.
We need to live through this war and prove
Mr. Lincoln's prophecy wrong. At least as
it applies to our family."
"What prophecy, Papa?"
"The one he appropriated from Saint Mark. "And
if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot
stand." When the war's over, I'd like to see the Kent
house still standing. Whole, and healed. But there's one thing
even more important-was
Jephtha had tears in his eyes. So did
Gideon.
"I don't want this war to destroy you. I gave you
life, and Margaret's given you life in another
way. Both are too precious to lose."
"I'll come through just fine, Papa."
"I pray so." Jephtha looked at his son.
"Because I love you."
The quiet words faded quickly. Something drove
Gideon forward then; a bursting relief; a draining
of old pain. He took his father in his arms and held
him close.
When they drew apart, Jephtha uttered another
small, pleased sigh and picked up his
portmanteau. Then he put it down again:
"By the way-I know nothing about smuggling money across a
hostile border. I suppose it can be
arranged-was
"Edward was apparently going to try."
"So am I."
"What?"
"One way or another, I'm going to see you receive
five thousand in gold from the Ophir money."
6128And If a House Be Divided-"
Gideon's mouth dropped open.
"If that's not enough, I'll send more. In care of your
mother in Lexington. It may take a while, but I
promise I'll get it to you. If you're going
to survive this damned war, you have to be adequately
equipped."
"I don't understand, sir. Why should you send me
gold?"
"To buy horses, Lieutenant. Horsesl It's
the only gift I can give you besides a father's love
and a prayer for your forgiveness."
Once more he picked up the portmanteau. The
bottom dripped muddy water.
"Now you turn that team around and head back for
Richmond. If you stay away from Margaret too
long, some other chap's going to steal her."
They laughed and clasped hands.
"God keep you, Gideon. You and your
brothers and your mother, too. We'll see each other
when this trouble's done."
He leaned disforward and kissed his son's cheek. Then
he turned and trudged past the junction and on down
the road leading north.
t"
Gideon didn't leave immediately. He couldn't He
climbed up on the seat of the wagon, untied the
reins and sat watching the black-clad figure
dwindling into the misty landscape of pale greens and
gray. There seemed to be a briskness to his father's
walk; a vigor entirely new and reassuring.
Jephtha's figure grew smaller and smaller.
He walked steadily toward the place where the road
wound out of sight between low hills. The words from Saint
Mark lingered in Gideon's mind.
The Titans613
"And if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot
stand."
Perhaps it was true of America. He hoped it
wasn't true of the Confederate States. Despite
the victory at Manassas, Davis"
policies were already being called into question. The very
principle of state sovereignty which had caused the
separation from the Union was becoming the basis
of outraged protests from governors throughout the South.
How dare Mr. Davis insist on additional
military levies? The power of centralized au-
yuiority was the very power against which the South had
rebelled-
But a few thoughtful men were already warning that unthinking
insistence on states' rights would ultimately undo
the Confederacy. Or at least dangerously hamper
its ability to fight.
No such philosophic arguments disrupted the
North. Lincoln was recouping swiftly and
firmly. Speaking to the special session of the
Yankee Congress in early July, he'd demanded
authorization to call another four hundred thousand men
to arms, and spend four hundred millions of
dollars to wage war against the cause symbolized by the
flag Gideon had finally sent to Miss Nancy
Wonderly of White House.
His father was probably correct. Terrible times
might lie ahead. The war could be longer and grimmer
than anyone had imagined.
But no matter how it came out-and he fervently
hoped it would come out in favor of his side-perhaps his father
was also correct in saving the Kents needn't be forever
split into warring camps. The possibility
doubled his reasons for wanting to live through the days
ahead.
One reason was Margaret, of course. The other was the
sense of family that had never quite left him. Until
the windy evening when he went rushing to the Alms
6148And If a House Be Divided-
house, he'd never fully realized how wide and
deep the river of family blood flowed.
And if a house be divided-
Whatever else happened, perhaps the Kents could fight
from principle, not hatred. And prove that wrong.
Far in the distance, Jephtha Kent halted.
Gideon watched his father's arm rise in a final
wave.
He lifted his own hand, waving in return. Then
Jephtha disappeared in the murk between the pale green
hills.
Gideon snapped the reins over the backs of the
horses. He maneuvered the wagon into the
crossroads, turned it around and headed south, the
sound of his fine, strong voice singing "Lorena"
drifting out behind.
CHAPTER
The Better Angels
"COWARDICE! ABSOLUTE cowardice and the
refusal to obey orders-that's what caused the
defeat, gentlemen."
The voice of the young captain in spotless blue
carried through the racket of Williard's saloon
bar. It reached Michael Boyle where he sat at
a small table against the wall, sipping his fifth
whiskey of the hot August evening.
Late in the afternoon he'd received a startling and wholly
unexpected note. He was waiting for the sender of the
note. And growing more sullenly drunk by the moment.
His first couple of whiskeys hadn't cost him a
penny. A gregarious, flamboyant young man named
Jim Fisk had bought every soldier in the bar two
rounds before departing for a dinner engagement. Mr.
Fisk was one of the hundreds of businessmen who had
come to Washington to vie for a piece of the Federal
military budget. Fisk had told Michael he
represented the Jordan Marsh store of Boston,
and was prepared to make the War De-
tpartment an attractive offer on badly needed
blankets. The loud-mouthed captain notwithstanding,
drinking was certainly preferable to the guard duty for which
Michael had been scheduled this evening. Only the
note had rescued him; the duty officer
recognized an important name when he
saw one. Michael had been glad to leave the
dispirited encampment out on the grounds of

616The Better Angels
Georgetown College and walk all the way
to Pennsylvania Avenue.
In the past few weeks he'd lost fourteen pounds.
He was gaunt in the face and seldom clean shaven.
His splendid Zouave uniform was long gone. He'd
thrown all of it away except for his trousers and
shirt on that Sunday afternoon last month when-
He closed his eyes and tossed off the whiskey,
trying not to remember.
A couple of civilians at the bar objected to the
captain's remarks. But not loudly enough to discourage
him:
"We've heard a lot of damned nonsense about
poor leadership. Speaking as an eyewitness-as a
man who was there-I can tell you the fault doesn't
lie with the commanders. Ninety percent of the enlisted men in
the Union Army are damned yellow-bellies."
At the far end of the bar a huge, bearded man
slammed down his whiskey glass. He stalked to the
captain, caught him by the left epaulette and
spun him around:
"And I say you're a damned liar,
shoulder-straps!"
The captain started to laugh. Then he took the full
measure of the big man's size. He replied in a
mumble:
"Who the devil are you?"
"Name's Whitman, if that matters. I write a
bit for the New York papers. I help in the
hospitals, too-was
"So?"
Red-faced, the burly Whitman jerked the
captain's epaulette again:
"Don't sneer at me, you son-of-a-bitch.
I've knelt by the cots of those poor youngsters shot
up at Bull Run. were you with them?"
"Indeed, I wasl My regiment was never actually
committed to the fighting, but I saw-was
"Oh, you saw!" Whitman roared. "You saw, did
you, shoulder-straps? Well then, you tell me where
all
The Titans617
the Union companies have gone to! I tell you
where-they've gone to their graves because their leaders ran
and abandoned them. I've talked to the boys who got
back. I know the truth. Blow-brag-put
on airs in Willard's parlors-Bull Run was
your work."
"Blast your insolence-was the captain began.
"Your sl" Whitman jabbed an index finger against the
captain's chest. "You and the rest of those incompetents
who call themselves officers. If you'd been half as
brave as your men-one-tenth!-Bull Run would never
have happened!"
Michael was fascinated by the strange, bullying
fellow. He was so furious, tears were forming in his
eyes.
The officer reached for the hilt of his saber:
"I'd be happy to settle this difference with you
outside. Not only happy-I insist."
"I haven't got a weapon, shoulder-straps,"
Whitman said. "But I'll oblige you."
"A male nurse! Probably fondles the little
darlings while he's caring for them-was
The captain's contemptuous aside produced only
one laugh. Men were clustering around Whitman and the
officer in anticipation of a fight. Slowly,
Michael stood up. He threw his whiskey glass
on the floor.
The sound of it shattering turned every head. Michael
weaved toward the bar, a rail-thin soldier
in cast- off blue he'd recovered from a pile of
clothing stripped off the Union dead brought back from
Bull Run. The tittle metal harp winked on
his forage cap. He reached the officer. His eyes were
watering from the thick cigar smoke. "I'll oblige
you, too, Captain. I'll join Mr. Whitman
in obliging you right now."
"Private, remember yourself!" the captain warned.
"Fuck you."
Someone clapped. The captain swallowed. He
glanced at Michael's cap.
"What's your unit? I intend to report-was
618The Better Angels
"Go ahead! You go on down to Richmond and report
me to Colonel Corcoran of the 69th. You'll
find him in prison."
The captain tried to be intimidating: "The New
York 69th, is it?"
"Yes-sir. The regiment that went up the Henry
House Hill right after the Second Wisconsin and
Colonel Cameron's Highlanders. We went all
the way to the top. We weren't fortunate enough just
to observe-was
The words brought it all back; shook him; set
hideous images whirling in his head:
The running men stripped to shirt sleeves and
weapons.
The shoes left behind because they were too hot to wear.
The shouts of encouragement-some in English, some in
Gaelic.
The rattle of musketry-and the deafening thunder of the
rebel field pieces sweeping the summit as the
first ranks reached it.
The 69th had made three desperate charges against
a Confederate battery. At last, beaten, the
survivors had fled back down the slope and
attempted to reorganize-
Michael's golden-brown eyes glittered in the
light of the hanging bar lamps. "Let me ask you,
Captain-how many did your regiment lose?"
"None!"
Derisive laughter.
"See here, that's not the point!"
"Yes, it is," Michael said. "We lost
thirty-eight dead, fifty-nine wounded,
ninety-five missing. Sixteen percent of the
regiment. We fought until the retreat to Centre-
ville started and there were no more officers to give
orders. Ours were lost. Every other one we saw was
running"
He took a step forward. Whitman tensed. The
captain was sweating.
The Titans619
Michael reached for the captain's epaulette:
"You don't deserve these, Mr. Shoulder-straps-was
A hand fastened on his arm:
"Michael! Good Lord, I didn't expect to find
you in the middle of a brawl!"
"This preening prick-was Michael blurted.
Abruptly, he recognized the grave, fatigued
face of Joshua Roth- man.
The captain chose the moment to whirl, dart away and
rush for the door. He reddened as curses and jeers
followed him.
The eyes of the big bearded hospital orderly
grew surprisingly gentle. He extended his hand
to Michael:
"I thank you for your offer of help, sir. But I'd
have done it myself."
"I know, Mr.-Whitman, is it? I just felt like
joining you."
"For that I don't blame you. God bless you,
soldier."
The crowd parted respectfully to permit Whitman
to return to the drink he'd left at the end
of the bar.

Michael Boyle had no stomach for the elegant
supper Joshua Rothman had arranged in a
private dining room on Willard's second
floor. He poured a full goblet of white wine as
Rothman dipped into his soup.
"I knew from the papers that you must have been at
Managsas," the banker said between swallows. "I
don't doubt it was worse than any civilian can
imagine."
In his mind, Michael saw the emerald colors
fall.
"A lot worse."
He tried to focus his eyes on Rothman's
face. "Youf note was certainly unexpected,
Joshua." A humorless smile. "At least it
saved me from guard duty. I never imagined you'd
turn up here-was
620The Better Angels
"You didn't? With the Treasury pleading for loans from
any available source? I'm seeing Secretary
Chase in the morning."
"But your note said you had something personal
to discuss."
"Quite personal-was
Rothman put down his spopn. Dabbed his lips with
his napkin.
"Louis."
The mention of the name produced a spontaneous image
of Julia's vivid blue eyes. Disgusted with
himself, Michael drank more wine.
"What about Louis?"
"He's going ahead with that profiteering scheme."
"Federal Suppliers-was
"Yes."
Michael shook his head as if he were unbearably
tired.
Rothman continued, "I assumed your precipitous
departure from Kentland and your equally quick disappearance
from New York meant you wanted no part of it."
"You're correct."
But not entirely. There was another reason.
"Well-was An embarrassed shrug. "comx took me
a bit longer to reach my decision. Perhaps because I'm
not as young as you, Michael. And, like most bankers,
notoriously conservative. But I've done a good
deal of thinking, and my original reaction stands.
Louis' plan makes a mockery of the Kent name.
He can't be permitted to carry it out. The
only way to stop him is to threaten to expose him.
Not merely threaten-do it, if necessary."
Abruptly, Michael began to feel quite sober.
"How, Joshua?"
"In the newspapers."
"You don't mean that."
"I do."
The Titans621
"Well, you certainly don't need my permission."
"But I need your corroboration. K I show
Louis a draft of an article describing the
scheme, it's a standoff. His word versus mine. But you
were at Kentland too. You and Israel Hope.
I've written Hope a letter but as yet I've
received no reply. So you're the only one who can
help. You heard Louis. If there are two of us
making the charges, I believe I can persuade
Benbow and Benbow to release the incorporation papers
for Federal Suppliers. Members of the Benbow
firm still aren't happy about their involvement."
"Who'd write such an article? You?"
"My first thought was Jephtha. I understand he's back
in Washington-was
"Safe," Michael said. "He was caught in the
retreat from Bull Run and held
prisoner in Richmond for a while. Then he was
paroled suddenly, though he won't say how he
managed it. He came out to Georgetown to visit
me two days ago-was He pondered. "I think
Jephtha would do it. Louis is stealing what belongs
to his sons. I think he'd do it even though it'd
cost him his job."
"It will cost us all something," Rothman admitted.
"It will cost my bank the profits from handling a very
considerable fortune. It'll cost the Benbows
substantial fees and a major share of their
business. It'll cost you-was
"Never mind about me."
"No, you must examine the risks, Michael. You'd
acquire a powerful enemy."
"Hell-was Michael shrugged; his alcoholic
torpor was almost gone. "comI've already got thousands
of those on the other side of the Potomac." "Do you
plan to remain in the army?"
"Yes. When my ninety-day enlistment ran out, I
signed on again." Another sip of wine.
"Suppose Louis refuses to be bluffed.
Suppose it's actually necessary to print an article.
The Union won't do it, much as Theo Payne
might like to-was
622The Better Angels
"Naturally. But someone will publish it Greeley-
someone. I'll see to it."
Quietly Michael asked, "Why are you doing this?"
Rothman covered his eyes a moment. "I thought I
explained. Evidently I didn't do it well.
I have a very strong feeling for the Kent family,
Michael. I believe the family stands for values
Louis cares nothing about You'll probably accuse
me of being a sentimental fool-was
"Only sentimental."
"Well, that's good. Because I'm going to say something very
presumptuous. I know Louis is Amanda's flesh
and blood. But I honestly feel you and I and the
Benbows-and Mr. Hope before he resigned-are more
representative of the Kents than Amanda's own
son."
Michael chuckled. "A slum boy, a Jewish
banker, a bunch of Boston lawyers-Joshua, that
is presumptuous."
"I warned you. Still, I think we have a duty
to preserve the family's integrity until such a
time as Louis comes to his senses-or there are other
Kents who understand then heritage better than the
gentleman under discussion."
The banker paused. Then: "Well, Michael?
What do you say to my presumption?"
"I applaud it I'll help you."
"You must understand what you're doing. You'll never see
a penny of your handsome salary again. You'll have Louis
against you as long as you live."
"He can't hurt me."
"Not now. But when the war's over-when you need
employment-was
"Joshua, how can a soldier even be sure hell
survive the war? I'll worry about Louis venting
his wrath if and
The Titans623
when it happens. Now, do you want me to speak
to Jephtha, or will you?"
"I think we should do it together. Do you know where he
lives?"
"G Street."
"Tomorrow, then, after I've called on Chase-what the
devil's so humorous?"
"U. The presumptuous conspirators-was He
raised his goblet. "Here's to us, Joshua.
Custodians of the honor of a family to which we
don't even belong." "Do you think it's an
unworthy role?"
Remembering Amanda, Michael replied:
"No. It's exactly the right one. I do realize
it means starting another war. Smaller than the one
occupying the attention of the country, but no less
fierce."
Rothman grew thoughtful. "I might be wrong in
what I said a moment ago. You could fare better with
Louis than I predicted. It's very strange, but
you seem to have acquired a strong partisan in his
wife."
"Julia?"
"Yes. Ever since you left New York, she's
praised you time am right-brace
again-extravagantly. Before, she all but ignored
you. Certainly a curious change, wouldn't you
say?"
Michael recalled her face; the taste of her
mouth; the feel of her body that night he'd taken
her.
Her body. Responding to his-
Perhaps she'd never known how it felt to be loved
because of passion instead of marital necessity. He'd
damned near-hell, he had raped her to prove he
, wouldn't play her flirtatious games, and now
she was-
God, it was almost wickedly funny.
Except that he had no desire to laugh just then. The
memories roused emotions he'd been struggling
against-unsuccessfully-ever since Kentland. Fool that
he was, he cared for herl
624The Better Angels
And now Rothman intimated she cared for him a little,
too.
Christ! What a ridiculous, impossible
situation!
And yet he knew that if he didn't fall in
battle, he'd see her again. Somewhere,
sometime-dangerous as it was for his peace of mind-he
knew he'd see her-
His hand jerked involuntarily, knocking over his
goblet.
Baffled, Joshua Rothman watched him as he
dabbed at the spilled wine, then refilled the goblet
and drained it. He was having trouble containing his urge
to laugh. He couldn't get over how strangely things
worked out for the Almighty's confused and imperfect
creatures-
The laughter erupted. He threw his head back, his
voice pealing. He kept laughing, louder and louder.
Joshua Rothman looked nonplussed, and
completely incapable of deciding whether the tears
streaming down Michael's cheeks were tears of mirth
or misery.
in
Molly Emerson woke abruptly, wrinkling her
nose.
She'd been sleeping close to Jephtha despite
the heat of the August night-no, the night was over,
she realized. Grayness tinged the windows.
She sniffed again.
A cigar!
Opening one eye, she saw the orange tip brighten,
then fade. Jephtha exhaled smoke. He was
propped in an awkward position, the back of his
head jammed against the wooden headboard.
Still drowsy, she slipped a hand across his stomach.
"Can't you sleep?"
The end of the cigar glowed and dimmed again.
"No."
She wondered whether it had anything to do with his meeting
the preceding evening. He'd gone out to dine
The Titans625
with two men she'd heard him mention in connection with the
family interests in New York. The men had
called for him in an expensive rented
carriage. One of them, superbly dressed and growing
gray, was introduced as Mr. Rothman, a banker
from Boston. The other was a young Irish soldier named
Boyle.
After Jephtha had returned about midnigjit,
he'd rushed straight to his room and spent three
hours working on a piece of copy-a news story,
she presumed- before he came to her bed.
"Jephtha?" "Mmm?"
"What are you thinking about?"
He shifted his head to gaze down at her. Worked his
arm beneath her shoulders, and his hand to her right breast,
letting the fingers rest gently.
I'm thinking perhaps you and I should get married."
"Married?"
After the shriek of surprise, she tried to sit up.
"Calm down, Molly. Is marriage anything
to get so " alarmed about?"
"No, I just-I just don't understand what you're
saying-was
"It's perfectly straightforward, woman."
"But you know-you've always known you weren't under any
obligation to marry me just because we-was
"Hush," he interrupted. "I've grown quite fond
of you, Mrs. Emerson. More than fond.
I believe I love you very much,"
She caught her breath. His voice had a note of-
elation, that was the only word for it
"Besides, I think marriage would probably be necessary
before I set foot in a pulpit again."
"A pulpitl Have you gone mad?"
"I certainly hope not."
"Then-then you've been drinking-was
626The Better Angels
He opened his mouth. She smelled the cigar, but no
alcohol.
"Hiram died the day before yesterday," he said.
Bafflement upon bafflement:
"Hiram?"
"The old black porter at the National. He was
also the minister at Grace Redeemer, the
African Methodist church up in Negro
Hill."
"Oh, yes, I do remember you mentioning that"
"They need a temporary preacher. Hiram was
ordained, you know. They want another ordained man
to replace him. Finding one will take a while. The
church said they'd pay me a dollar or two every
week- whatever they can raise. I may need the
money."
"Why?"
"I'm going to write an article for Mr.
Rothman. It's possible-no, very likely-that as
soon as I do, I'll be out of a job."
Molly's head began to ache. All this was too much;
incomprehensible. She untangled herself from his hand and
once again started to sit up:
"Jephtha Kent, what is going oril Why would you
lose your job?"
He leaned across and kissed her on the mouth. "I'll
explain everything in due time, I promise."
"But-I never thought you had the slightest desire
to preach again."
He shrugged, too casually. "Maybe I'm just
curious to see whether I can still do it."
She didn't believe it. Something had happened to him
since his return from Richmond. Something she
didn't understand.
Of course she hadn't missed the distinct
improvement in his spirits. He'd spoken with genuine
fondness about his son Gideon, who had saved his
life and exposed Lamont's plot. She'd
attributed his changed mood to thankfulness that he was
vindicated, out of the Confed-
The Titans627
eraqy's hands-and no longer the enemy of his former
wife and eldest son.
But that was only part of it, she sensed now. His
capture, imprisonment and parole had affected him
more profoundly than she'd ever suspected.
"Do you think you can preach again, Jephtha?"
He picked up the cigar stub from the bedside table,
puffed, then crushed it out.
"Yes, I do. I couldn't do it a year ago. Not
even a month ago. But now I can."
"For so long a time, I-I thought you didn't
believe in God any longer."
"Perhaps I didn't. The fault was mine, not His.
Life's curious, Molly. Here we are, caught
in what will probably be the most devastating war in this
nation's history coma war tearing the country apart-and in
the midst of that, He showed me the angels."
"Angels?"
"Remember Lincoln's inaugural? 'The better
angels of our nature-" I saw them in
Gideon. And Fan. They can bring us through this war.
They can heal the wounds afterward if we only let them.
They were there all along but I didn't see them. Not
even when you tried to show them to me-was
He squeezed her shoulder, a smile in his
voice:
"You're a wonderful woman, Molly. The good
Lord made you a fisher of men, not to mention a saver of
string."
She lay against him, her mind brimming with questions. How
long had he been pondering his decision? All
night? She'd ask him that, and many other things. But not
now. She was too happy.
The windows were lightening the bedroom's sultry
darkness. At length Jephtha resumed:
"Yes, I believe I'll help Hiram's
congregation. Have
628The Better Angels
to give up my whiskey, I suppose. And stop
saying damn and hell in public-was
He laughed, a deep, joyous sound. Somewhere in the
street, sharp commands rang out. Horses trotted
by. The noises of war. She could ignore them when
he laughed.
"We ought to shop for a ring soon, Molly. Oh,
yes- and one more thing."
He slipped his arm under her shoulder again, pulling her
close.
"I must buy another Testament."
Epilogue Captain Kent, CS.A.
Two notable events occurred on Saturday,
May 31, 1862. One was private, the other
public. Both were to affect the life of Captain
Gideon Kent.
After nine hours of labor, Margaret Marble Kent
was delivered of a six and a half pound daughter. And
General Joseph Johnston suffered a severe
wound at Seven Pines, just a few miles east of
Richmond.
A vast Union army of invasion-a hundred thousand
men and a siege train under the command of General
McClellan-lay across the Peninsula, its target
the capital. The campfires of the Northern lines
could be seen from the city by night.
Gideon Kent's elation over the birth of his first child,
and the happy confusion attending the selection of a name,
helped him forget for a few hours that Richmond was in
mortal danger, the Confederacy's best general out of
action and an unpopular replacement serving in his
stead. Robert E. Lee's reputation had suffered
after his defeats in western Virginia the preceding
year. Captain Kent of the First Virginia
Regiment of General Stuart's cavalry was not
encouraged that the fortunes of the Army of Northern
Virginia-and the future of the
Confederacy-were now in the hands of the reserved,
courtly soldier now being called "Evacuating"
Lee.
On Wednesday, the eleventh of June, Gideon
was as629
630Captain Kent, C.sa.
signed to a special detachment of approximately
twelve hundred troopers; portions of the First,
Fourth and Ninth Virginia, plus men from the Jeff
Davis Legion. He didn't know the
detachment's mission when Brigadier Stuart led the
horsemen out of Richmond next day, riding his new
charger, Star of the East.
Stuart's escort had expanded. It now included a
very special soldier named Sweeny. The former
minstrel-show performer had been stranded in Richmond
at the start of the war. Stuart had maneuvered him out of
another unit into his own because of Sweeny's talent
on the banjo. Now the general had banjo
accompaniment when he rode and sang.
He also had conversation in a bastard combination of
German and English. A few days before Seven
Pines, he'd taken a flamboyant European
dragoon into his retinue; Von Borcke, late
of the Royal Prussian Army. The
officer had run the blockade in order to join the
Confederacy.
Gideon looked smart in his gray uniform as he
set out along the Brook Road behind the First
Virginia's commander, Colonel Fitzhugh Lee.
Colonel Lee permitted his men to decorate their
hats much as the brigadier decorated his. Unable
to afford an ostrich plume, Gideon settled for a
pair of turkey feathers.
He hated to leave Margaret in Richmond when the
Yanks were closing in. But he had a job to do. The
war had become that for him-a task, not a crusade.
Still, three things buoyed his spirits as he rode.
The first was a tiny lock of hair-more properly,
down-snipped from the head of his daughter Eleanor.
This he carried in his blouse pocket.
The second was his horse. It was probably a
stolen animal. It had certainly been
outrageously overpriced by the trader with whom he'd
arranged a confidential meeting near Camp Qui
Vive last autumn. Nevertheless,
The Titans631
Will-O'-The-Wisp was a splendid roan, and
surely part thoroughbred.
Gideon had written a letter to his father
to tell him the smuggled bullion had enabled him
to buy the horse. He'd paid an exorbitant
price to an illegal courier, with no guarantee the
letter would ever reach the New York Union's
Washington office. He'd received no reply.
The third thing that helped lift his spirits was a flag.
It had been sent to him as a token of gratitude
by Miss Wonderly of White House. Like the one
she'd given I Rodney, she had sewn it herself
immediately after the new and less confusing battle standard
had been approved and adopted in November.
The flag, half the regulation cavalry size, was
brilliant red, with white stars on a blue St.
Andrew's cross. Gideon carried it neatly
folded over his belt near his revolver-a
.44-caliber, pin-fire, ten-shot buck-and-ball
Le Mat, French-made and mint new. That
particular revolver was growing more and more popular with the
Confederate soldiers who could afford to buy one.
He'd used some of the gold to buy the revolver as a
replacement for his Colts. He'd lost one during
a hot skirmish at Drainesville in
December. The other had been stolen from his tent a
month later.
The flag, the horse, the child-they were his
talismans; the sum of his hope for survival and
victory. He was confident they'd carry him through
whatever lay ahead.
As his father had predicted, the war was assuming
near-unimaginable dimensions. In March the C. S.
Virginia comthe captured Merrimack refitted-had
dueled with a queer-looking Northern craft in
Hampton Roads. Monitor and its Confederate
counterpart belonged to a new breed of vessel everyone
was talking about. Ironclads, they were called.
Experts said the day of the wooden fighting ship had
ended at Hampton Roads.
632Captain Kent, C.s.a.
April had driven home the war's mounting human
cost. Somewhere in Tennessee-Gideon had only the
sketchiest understanding of the geography of the western
theater-a gigantic battle centered near a place
called Shilo Meeting House had resulted in
casualties almost beyond the mind's capacity
to comprehend. Over ten thousand were killed or lost on
the Southern side; over thirteen thousand on the other.
Gideon's father-in-law had mixed feelings about the
battle. Willard Marble didn't know whether
to grieve because a Confederate triumph the first day had
become a disaster on the second, or
to celebrate because his old protector, Uncle
Sam Grant, now a Union general, had been
instrumental in the battle's final outcome. Given
two reasons to seek the bottle, the Sergeant
indulged with a vengeance, and lay in a stupor for five
days.
Matt was involved in the war now. Fan's last letter
from Lexington had enclosed another from her second
son, together with a sketch of black men loading coal
aboard a rakish-looking steamer. Matt had
scribbled his letter and sketched the dock workers in
Nassau, where his ship had put in to fill her
holds before undertaking the" perilous voyage to Cape
Fear. Matt's skipper was running the blockade.
Despite the widening war, Gideon was in a good
mood as the special cavalry detachment turned
east from the Brook Road. It didn't take much
imagination to guess they were going on a
reconnaissance mission; probing the strength and
strategic position of the Union army led by the
general called Little Napoleon. Gideon was
confident the mission would succeed. Stuart had proved
himself a superior leader. And Gideon had his
talismans.
The fine horse.
The brave flag.
The precious lock of hair.
The Titans633
Three days later-Sunday-when the jubilant
Brigadier's troopers dashed back into Richmond
after riding completely around McClellan's army,
there was no roan named WU-LIKE-O'-The-WISP
among the lathered horses.
The regimental roster listed Captain Gideon
Kent as missing in action.
From Georgia ravaged by Sherman's horde
to the raw railheads and cow towns
of the frontier ...
from the Western plains
bloodied by the lances
of the Indian wars
to Eastern streets
bloodied by the bombs
of the labor struggle ...
the Kents battle their own natures
and each other,
for control of the family's destiny
in
Warners
Volume VI
of
The Kent Family Chronicles
Afterword
Researching The American Bicentennial Series
would have been impossible without the help of the Dayton and
Montgomery County Public Library, which is
under the able direction of Mr. William Chait.
When specialized questions have cropped up, his
dedicated staff has always been ready to assist in
digging for the answers-or to locate obscure but necessary
reference works in other parts of the country.
In preparing THE TITANS, I also received generous
and invaluable assistance from The Virginia
Historical Society, Richmond, and the
Archives of the United States Military
Academy, West Point. My wannest thanks go
to all three institutions-though of course none is in
any way responsible for errors of fact or
interpretation that may have found their way into this book,
or the Series.
It was in a Boston bookshop during a promotion
tour for THE SEEKERS that a reader first approached
me with a family tree he had drawn up for the
Kents. Since then I've seen quite a few others and
heard of more. Frequent letters to the publisher
have likewise requested a family tree covering the
books to date.
You will find one included in this volume.
JOHN JAKES
About the Author
JOHN JAKES was born in Chicago. He is
a graduate of DePauw University, and took
his M.a. in literature at Ohio State. He
sold his first short story during his second year of
college, and his first book twelve months later.
Since then he has published more than 200 short
stories and over 50 books-chiefly suspense,
nonfiction for young people and, most recently, science
fiction. With the publication of The Furies, volume
four of the Kent Family Chronicles, he became
the first author in history to laryi three novels on
the best-seller lists within a single year. The author
is married, the father of four children, and lists among his
organizations the Authors Guild, the
Dramatists Guild, and Science Fiction
Writers of America. In both 1976 and 1977
he was awarded honorary doctorates for his
contribution to the Bicentennial observance. He
says the most satisfying aspect of the phenomenal
success of the Kent family novels is
"the mail which reports that a reader has been
motivated to seek out some good nonfiction in order
to read about American history in greater detail.
That kind of direct response is what writing is
all about- and it makes all the hard work
worthwhile."