George was fascinated by the lush vegetation of the low country, overwhelmed by the size and beauty of Mont Royal, and taken with Orry’s family.
With most of them, anyway. Tillet Main struck him as stern and a mite suspicious of outsiders. Then there was Cousin Charles, a raffishly handsome boy whose chief occupations seemed to be smiling in a sullen way and practicing lunges and feints with a large bowie knife.
Orry’s sisters were, of course, far too young for George. Brett, just nine, was pretty and bright but tended to fade into the background when eleven-year-old Ashton was present. The older sister was one of the loveliest little girls George had ever seen. What a beauty she’d be at twenty!
He spent his first full day at Mont Royal touring the fields and learning how a rice plantation operated. Late in the afternoon he was given into the care of Clarissa and her daughters, who took him to a charming summer house at one corner of the garden. When they were all comfortably seated in wicker chairs, two Negro girls served them delicious lemonade and little cakes.
Presently Clarissa excused herself to see to something in the kitchen. Ashton folded her hands in her lap and regarded George with great dark eyes.
“Orry says your nickname is Stump. You don’t look like a stump to me.” She smiled, her eyes flashing.
George ran an index finger under his tight, hot collar. For once he was at a loss for words. Brett rescued him.
“That’s the handsomest uniform I ever have seen—though it’s true I haven’t seen many.”
“Not as handsome as what’s in it,” Ashton said, and at that George actually blushed. The sisters seemed like miniature women, not children. Ashton’s flirtatious nature, rather than being pleasing, made him uncomfortable.
It was her age, he decided. She was too young to act coquettish, yet she did. George was attracted to pretty women, but he tended to avoid beautiful ones. They were too aware of their own good looks, and that awareness often made them moody and difficult. So it would be with Ashton Main, he suspected.
Ashton kept watching him over the rim of her lemonade glass. He was relieved to return to male company when the little party ended.
Two evenings later, at the dinner table, Clarissa announced plans for a big picnic at which George was to be introduced to neighbors and relatives.
“If we are lucky, we shall also have the honor of Senator Calhoun’s presence. He has been home at Fort Hill for a few weeks. He suffers from a lung disorder which the climate of the Potomac basin only exacerbates. Up-country the air is clear and pure. It affords him some relief, which is the reason—Tillet, why on earth are you making such a face?”
Every head swung toward the end of the table. Outside, far-off thunder rumbled in the still air. Ashton and Brett exchanged anxious looks. This was the season of the hurricanes that came sweeping off the ocean with destructive fury.
“John hardly acts like one of us any longer,” Tillet said. An insect landed on his forehead. He swatted at it, then gestured in an annoyed way.
A little Negro boy had been standing motionless in the corner, fly whisk held in front of him like a musket. In response to Tillet’s gesture the boy jumped forward and waved the whisk vigorously near Tillet’s head, but he knew he was too late. He had displeased his owner. The fear in the boy’s eyes told George more about the relationship between master and slave than he might have learned from hours of abolitionist lectures.
“We toast John on every public occasion,” Tillet went on. “We put up statues and plaques honoring him as the greatest living resident of the state—possibly the nation. Then he traipses off to Washington and utterly ignores the will of his constituents.”
Cooper gave a little snort that clearly angered his father. “Come, sir,” Cooper said, “are you suggesting Mr. Calhoun can be considered a South Carolinian only when he agrees with you? His opposition to the war. may be unpopular, but it’s patently sincere. He certainly supports and reinforces most of your other views.”
“Which you do not. Of course, I am not particularly distressed by that fact.” The sarcasm made George uncomfortable, and he suspected that deep down Tillet was greatly distressed.
“Good,” Cooper retorted with an airy wave of his wineglass. He ignored imploring glances from his mother. “You mustn’t worry about what I think. It’s the opinion of the rest of the country that you ignore at your peril.”
Tillet’s hand closed on his napkin. He glanced at George, forced a smile. “My son is a self-proclaimed expert on national affairs. Sometimes I think he’d be more at home living up North.”
Rigid in his chair, Cooper said, “Balderdash.” His smile was gone. “I despise those damn abolitionists with all their self-righteous breast-beating. But their hypocrisy doesn’t blind me to the truth of some of their charges. The moment anyone dares to criticize the way we do things in the South, we all become as defensive as treed porcupines. The Yankees say slavery is wrong, so we claim it’s a blessing. They point to scars on nigra backs—”
“You find no scars on anyone at Mont Royal,” Tillet interrupted, for George’s benefit. Cooper paid no attention.
“—and we respond with windy pronouncements that slaves are happy. No person deprived of liberty is happy, for God’s sake!”
“Watch your foul mouth in front of these children,” Tillet shouted.
But the younger man was as angry as the older: “Instead of learning from the truth, we avoid it. We’re content to be what we’ve been for a hundred and fifty years—farmers whose crops depend on the sweat of black bondsmen. We ignore men like George’s father, even though they’re becoming legion up North. George’s father manufactures iron with free labor. That iron goes into machines. Machines are creating the future. The Yankees understand what this century’s all about, but we only understand the last one. If Senator Calhoun no longer parrots the established wisdom of the state, more power to him. We need a dozen more like him.”
There was an uncharacteristic sharpness in Clarissa’s voice. “It’s rude of you to speak so intemperately in front of our guest.”
“Yes, the hell with the truth. Good manners above all.” Cooper raised his wineglass in a mock toast. Tillet knocked the glass from his hand.
The black boy with the fly whisk ducked. The glass broke against the wall. Brett shrieked and shrank against her chair, one hand over her eyes. Orry looked at the visitor and shrugged, his smile awkward and apologetic.
Tillet seethed. “You have consumed too much wine, Cooper. You had better retire until you can control yourself.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Clarissa. Though softly spoken, it was a command.
Cooper did act a mite intoxicated, George thought. The older brother rose, stared at his father, then laughed before hurrying out. Tillet was livid; clearly, mockery enraged the head of Orry’s family even more than did heresy.
No one smiled or said much during the rest of the meal. George was depressed. There was a clear rift in the Main household. A rift much like the one his own father said was slowly but inevitably dividing the country.
9
ALTHOUGH THE PICNIC FELL within the sickly season, it drew a crowd of more than two hundred. Many came from their summer homes, and some all the way from Columbia. This impressed George, but not as much as the late-morning arrival of John Calhoun.
Senator Calhoun and his wife, Floride, drove up the lane in an old but elegant barouche. Friends and the curious hurried to surround the vehicle. George had heard someone say the senator had spent the night in Charleston, attended by his driver and three other Negroes, all house servants, who followed the barouche in a mule-drawn cart.
In the last thirty years of America’s national life, no one had played more roles with greater dominance than the tall, hawkish man who stepped quickly down from the barouche and began greeting well-wishers. George couldn’t recall all the offices Calhoun had held. He knew secretary of war and Vice-President were two of them.
Early in his career Calhoun had been a
fierce partisan of the Federal Union and of the Academy. When others had argued against Sylvanus Thayer’s ambitious reform programs, Calhoun had endorsed them, believing America could not be strong without a strong military arm. But of course when Northerners heard Calhoun’s name now, most of them thought of one thing—the doctrine of nullification.
The senator had propounded the doctrine in the early 1830s. At issue was a protective tariff unpopular in South Carolina. Calhoun argued that the state had the sovereign right to nullify the tariff—which in effect meant any state could disobey any Federal law it disliked. President Jackson had backed Calhoun down and ended the nullification movement with an implied threat of Federal force.
George was introduced to the Calhouns. He guessed that the senator was in his middle sixties. It was obvious that age and disease had wasted Calhoun’s face and tall, strong frame. But echoes of earlier good looks remained in his dramatic crest of gray hair thrown back from his forehead and in his brilliant dark blue eyes.
Calhoun murmured a few complimentary words about West Point, then moved on. George had an impression that the senator was an exhausted, embittered man. His smile looked false, his movements labored.
George soon grew dizzy trying to keep up with all the introductions. He met Mains and Bulls and Smiths, Rhetts and Hugers and Boykins and LaMottes and Ravenels. One member of the Smith family, female and about his own age, seemed as taken with his uniform as he was with her décolletage. They promised to meet in twenty minutes at the punch table.
Herr Nagel, who tutored the Main sisters, was already falling-down drunk. George helped him to a bench. Next he spent an uncomfortable few minutes conversing with Tillet’s overseer, a short Yankee named Salem Jones. Jones had a cherubic face but mean eyes, which he kept fixed on a distant section of the lawn. There, some favored house slaves had been given a couple of tables for their own food, which they were permitted to sample while waiting for a summons to perform some chore for the guests. Calhoun’s blacks had made straight for the slave gathering, which was growing boisterous. Jones pursed his lips, watching.
The day grew dark with thunderclouds. A light shower sent everyone scurrying. When the rain stopped five minutes later and the guests sorted themselves out again, George couldn’t find the Smith girl. He bumped into Orry and noticed his faraway expression.
“Who mesmerized you, Stick? Ah—I see.” His appreciative smile faded. “I notice large rings on her hand. One a wedding ring. Is she the one you fell in love with two years ago?”
Softly, Orry said, “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”
“Lovely is faint praise. I’d say the word is ravishing. So that’s Madeline. She looks exhausted.” Yet mere tiredness could hardly account for her strange, benumbed expression.
Orry offered the explanation when he said, “She just returned from New Orleans. Her father suffered another stroke, she rushed to his bedside, and a couple of days after she got there, he died. She had to handle all the funeral arrangements herself. It’s no wonder that she’s worn out.”
George was acutely aware of the emotion in his friend’s voice. He hadn’t heard much about the fabled Madeline during recent months, and he had decided Orry had gotten over the infatuation. He had been wrong.
He studied the girl more closely. Despite the fatigue shadows around her eyes, she was truly one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her mouth was red and full. Her pale skin and black, straight hair created a stunning contrast. He leaned closer to his friend.
“Have I met her husband?”
“Yes. That clod.”
Orry inclined his head toward one of the LaMottes. Then George recalled the introduction. Justin, that was the fellow’s name. Arrogant sod. So was his brother Francis, who stood nearby with his dowdy wife and handsome young son. The son, in a fine coat and flowing cravat, was preening as much as his father and his uncle. They acted as if they were European royalty, not American farmers.
“How can she possibly get along with that crowd?” he whispered.
“She does very well. Madeline could charm the devil himself. And my mother tells me she’s become extremely good at her duties on the plantation. That’s unusual because Madeline wasn’t trained to birth babies or run a kitchen. I’m sure Justin has no appreciation of her ability. Come on, I’ll present you.”
The young men started toward her. Madeline saw them and spontaneous joy animated her face. My Lord, George said to himself, she’s got a case as bad as his. Then Madeline’s lifeless look returned. She reminded George of someone who had just made a horrifying discovery. Something to do with her husband, no doubt, he thought cynically.
Madeline stepped away from Justin. Before Orry could speak to her, however, Calhoun strolled up with Tillet Main at his right hand and several other male guests at his heels. They were hanging on the senator’s words.
“Some say the lesson of the nullification affair was this, Tillet. That the doctrine itself was wrong. I disagree. The doctrine is constitutionally correct. Only the way in which we tried to implement it was foolhardy. Foredoomed. One state cannot hope to prevail against the might of the Federal government. But several states—unified and determined—that’s another matter.”
Tillet cleared his throat. “Are you speaking of secession?”
Calhoun’s shrug was quick, almost fierce. “Well, it’s a term you hear a good deal in the South these days. I heard it in Charleston just the other evening. A gentleman I respect called secession the only adequate reply to Congressman Wilmot’s proviso.”
He was referring to an amendment to some Federal legislation that would have appropriated two million dollars to expedite negotiations with Mexico. Wilmot had proposed that slavery be expressly prohibited from territory acquired in any such negotiation. The arguments pro and con had caused a national uproar. The bill had passed the House, but the Senate had beaten it back before recessing in mid-August.
“The gentleman is right,” said one of the others. “The proviso is extreme provocation. An insult to the South.”
“What else do you expect from a Pennsylvania Democrat?” Tillet asked. “They have a bottomless treasury of righteousness up North.”
Calhoun nodded. “Secession talk is in the air for precisely that reason. There may be no other way to redress the grievances of this region.”
“I say let’s get on with it,” Justin LaMotte put in. He walked past his wife, and as he did so he scowled at her. George couldn’t imagine the reason, unless it was because she was interested in the discussion—one woman in the midst of a dozen men. The wife of the other LaMotte had crept away.
Tillet said to Justin, “Much as I despise some of those Yankee politicians, I’d hate for us to choose disunion after all the struggles to establish this country.”
Calhoun’s lips twisted. “The word choose puts the wrong color on it. If there is disunion, we shall be driven to it. Flogged to it by those Northerners whose favorite entertainment is sneering at us.”
“We’d be better off as a separate nation,” Francis LaMotte declared.
“How can you say that, Francis?”
The feminine voice stilled everyone else, turned heads, and set mouths agape. Justin looked as if he wanted to sink into the earth. Orry watched his shock and shame turn to anger.
Madeline seemed oblivious. Once again that odd, stunned expression faded, and her eyes grew lively. Having spoken out, she showed no inclination to stop. She talked to Calhoun.
“I am a Southerner born and bred, Senator. It was years ago that I first heard men speak of seceding from the Union. My father said the idea was pernicious twaddle because it wouldn’t work. I’ve thought about it since, and I agree.”
Calhoun’s reaction was more polite than those of the other men, who scowled and grumbled. Yet he, too, was obviously put off by a woman intruding into a man’s domain. With a faint lift of a gray brow, he said, “Really, madam?”
Madeline managed a disarming smile. “Of course. Just think a
bout the practicalities. What if we were a separate country and the cotton and rice markets went soft. It’s happened before. How much sympathy—how much help—would we receive from the other nation up North? What if a genuinely unfriendly government came to power there? What if they passed laws to prevent us from buying the goods we need for daily living? We depend on the North, Senator. We have no factories of our own. No substantial resources other than—”
“We have our principles,” Justin interrupted. “Those are more important than factories.” He closed a hand on her forearm. George saw her wince. “But I’m sure the senator isn’t interested in feminine opinions.”
Alarmed by the rage in LaMotte’s eyes, Calhoun tried to be gracious. “Oh, I’m always interested in the opinions of my constituents, whoever—”
Justin didn’t let him finish. “Come along, my dear. There is someone waiting to see you.” His cheeks showed spots of scarlet. His smile looked like the teeth in a skull.
She tugged against his constricting hand. “Justin, please—”
“Come along.”
He turned her around by pressure on her arm. Francis closed in behind them as they withdrew. George looked anxiously at his friend. For a moment he thought Orry might commit murder. Then Calhoun made a little joke to ease the tension, and the crisis passed.
Justin, meantime, was pushing Madeline toward the far side of the lawn where carriages were parked in long rows. He knew people were watching. He was too angry to care. Francis begged him to calm down. Justin swore at his brother and ordered him to leave. Looking mortified, Francis about-faced and returned to the crowd.
Justin shoved his wife against the big rear wheel of a carriage. The hub jabbed her back. She gasped.
“Let go of me. You have no right to treat—”