The Titans

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