The Titans (8 page)

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." The Titans121 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 The Titans123 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." The Titans125 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