North and South: The North and South Trilogy (88 page)

They hadn’t gone far before he was regretting his decision to travel. In North Carolina, where they changed trains for the first time, he asked the depot agent for a timetable.

“Ain’t got any,” the agent said, in the nasal twang Orry associated with the hill folk of the state.

“Then can you at least tell me when our train is scheduled to arrive in—?” He didn’t bother to finish. The agent had turned away behind the wicket.

Orry walked to the bench where Brett was seated. “They don’t seem to like questions here. Or maybe it’s South Carolinians they don’t like.” There were many anti-slavery men in North Carolina; the agent had probably identified Orry’s accent.

On the next leg of their journey, a Negro porter—a freedman—contrived to drop one of Brett’s portmanteaus, the one she had asked him to handle with special care. It contained some fragile gifts they were taking to Lehigh Station. The mishap occurred while the Negro was lifting the portmanteau from an overhead rack. Close to tears, Brett unwrapped a blown-glass pelican she had bought for Constance. The ornament was in three pieces.

“Sure am sorry, ma’am,” the porter said. Orry thought he detected a malicious gleam in the man’s eye.

At Petersburg, Virginia, a new conductor came on board. Orry showed his tickets, which were stamped with the seal of the issuing railroad in Charleston. The conductor’s manner grew officious. “Change in Washington, then Baltimore,” he said in a voice that suggested New England origins. -

“Thank you,” Orry said. “We have seven pieces of luggage. Will I be able to find a baggage man at the Washington depot?”

“Afraid I couldn’t say. I have nothing to do with porters. Mebbe you should have brought one of your nigger slaves.”

Orry uncoiled his long frame and stood. He had a good three inches on the conductor, whose attitude immediately became less truculent. “I resent your rudeness,” Orry said. “I don’t believe I’ve done anything to justify it”—he waved the ticket—“unless you consider coming from the South to be an offense.”

“Please, Orry,” Brett whispered. “Let’s not have a scene.”

The conductor took the opportunity to break away. “I’ll send the car porter,” he called as he disappeared through the door at the end of the first-class coach.

They never saw him again. Or the porter, either.

Rolling toward Richmond through the fall sunshine, the train lurched from side to side. Orry stared out the dirty window. “Why are we having so blasted much trouble? Am I doing something to invite it?”

Brett closed her copy of
A Tale of Two Cities,
the year’s fastest selling book. Giving her brother a melancholy look, she said, “No—unless it’s speaking with a Carolina accent.”

“You sure I haven’t come down with some kind of persecution fixation?”

She shook her head. “I’ve noticed a definite change in the way we’re treated. It’s not at all like the treatment we used to get in Newport. Then, people were friendly. They aren’t any longer.”

“But Virginia and North Carolina are the South!”

“Not the deep South. The cotton South. There are a lot of men and women in both states who are more Yankee than Southern. That’s the difference.”

She resumed her reading. The antagonism was startling to him; he found himself resenting it strongly. His dark mood was still with him when they arrived in Baltimore.

From Camden Street they had to transfer to the depot of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore line. Brett enjoyed the ride by horse car, but Orry was too hungry to be interested. Before their next train left he needed a meal.

Railroad officials kept predicting that dining cars would soon be found on every train, but at present few had them. The alternatives were unappealing. You could buy something to eat from one of the hawkers who roved up and down the trains, or you could harden your nerves and settle for the bad fare served in grimy depot restaurants. In Baltimore, Orry was driven to the latter.

He held the dining-room door for Brett. She lifted her skirts, prepared to step over the threshold, and glanced at the counter and the tables adjoining. All the customers were men. One or two cast bold, almost insulting looks her way. Orry bristled. She shook her head.

“I’m really not hungry, Orry. I’ll sit out here on this bench and wait for you. I’ll be perfectly all right.”

He helped her get settled, then entered the restaurant. Boisterous conversation filled the place. He scanned the room, saw an empty table, walked to it, and seated himself.

He ordered smoked pork with mashed turnips and johnnycake on the side. Then he drew out the small Bible he carried almost everywhere these days; he liked to read the Song of Solomon because so many verses reminded him of Madeline. He hadn’t spoken to her since Ashton’s anniversary barbecue. Their conversation had been short, formal, and inconsequential; she seemed disconnected from reality, not herself. He had asked Justin whether she had been ill. Justin merely smiled.

Orry bent over the open Bible. A few minutes later the waiter slammed a plate down. He also managed to spill some of the coffee he was serving. Orry held his temper.

He tried to read while he ate. He couldn’t concentrate; the voices at the next table were too loud. Finally he leaned back in his chair, listening.

“That’s all the damn Southrons can talk about, a separate government.” The speaker was the oldest of a trio, a skinny fellow with white chin whiskers, “I say let ’em have it. Let ’em launch their leaky boat and sink with it.”

“Hell, no!” That was a man with a crooked nose, a loutish sort with the look of a commercial traveler. “Anyone who goes along with that or even suggests it should be hung high enough for everyone to see what a traitor looks like.”

“That’s right,” said the third man, a middle-aged nonentity.

Orry knew the three men were boors reinforcing each other’s opinions. He knew he should sit quietly, avoiding trouble. But the continuing irritations of the day moved him beyond the border of prudence. He put his coffee mug on the table with just enough of a thump to draw their attention.

“Come now, gentlemen,” he said with a faint, chilly smile. “You sound as if the establishment of a peaceful Southern government would threaten you personally. I’m not in favor of the idea either, but I don’t call it treason. Just foolishness. I must say it’s an understandable foolishness. The South has suffered insults and calumnies for a generation.”

If any others in the room agreed with him, they kept quiet. The fellow with the chin whiskers asked, “What state are you from, sir?”

“South Carolina.”

The man leaned on the big silver knob of his cane, smiling smugly. “Might have known.”

The man with the crooked nose blurted, “Read the Constitution—then you’ll know that secession is treason. You cotton-states boys have been threatening it for years, swinging it like a damn club! Well, go ahead—pull out. But if you do, Buck Buchanan has every right to clap you in irons. Or string you up.”

A man nearby said, “Amen.”

Then Orry noticed hostile faces at the counter. They belonged to a pair of burly types in soiled overalls. Switchmen, to judge from the thick hickory clubs lying in their laps.

“Hell”—one of the switchmen snickered—”Old Buck wouldn’t do that. He’s a doughface.”

The fellow who had said amen agreed. “Then get the Army to hang ’em,” someone else suggested. Outside, a station man began calling passengers for the Philadelphia express.

“Won’t work,” declared Crooked Nose. “The West Point crowd runs the Army. Most of them are Southrons. Comes to a choice between their oath to defend the country and setting up a government to protect their niggers, you know which way those boys would go.”

Orry’s temples pulsed visibly. Under his coat his shirt felt sodden with sweat. He laid his hand on his Bible.

“Watch what you’re saying, sir.”

“What’s that?” Crooked Nose jumped up, overturning his chair. The pair of switchmen, clubs in hand, moved behind him. Two patrons flung down money and rushed out.

Without hurrying, Orry stood up. When Crooked Nose saw Orry’s height and his blazing eyes, he retreated.

“I said you’d do well to watch your remarks about the Military Academy. I’m a graduate of that institution, and I fought in Mexico.” He inclined his head toward his empty left sleeve. “I fought for the whole country, Yankees included.”

“Is that right?” Crooked Nose snorted. “Well,
sir,
I still say you West Point princelings have a secessionist streak a mile wide.”

Shouts. Some applause. One of the switchmen peered over Crooked Nose’s shoulder. “Maybe this Southron gentleman is gonna miss his train. Maybe he’s gonna get a new coat in Baltimore. A coat of tar and feathers.”

Crooked Nose broke into a grin. Orry’s eyes flickered over the faces ringing him. Hostile, every one. His stomach hurt. The switchmen began to sidle toward him.

A sudden, ratchetlike sound from behind the counter brought them to a halt. By the door to the kitchen stood a nondescript man with a cocked shotgun.

“Anybody supplies any new coats around here, they’ll have to fit me with one, too.” He addressed Orry. “I’m a Baltimore man born and bred. I regret you’ve received this kind of. reception in our city.”

“Orry?”

The sound of Brett’s voice turned him toward the door. She rushed to him. Outside, the station official called for Philadelphia passengers to board.

“Orry, I don’t want to miss the train. Come on.”

Crooked Nose guffawed. “Gonna let little missy fight your battles? How come you’re hanging around with her, anyway? I thought you cotton-states boys fancied dark meat.”

Orry struck then, a single, driving, clumsy blow, straight to Crooked Nose’s stomach. One switchman kept him from falling, the other raised his club, but the man with the shotgun called a warning.

Crooked Nose, making choking sounds, sagged, shuffled backward, then tripped on his overturned chair. Orry’s fist was clenched so hard it looked as white as a boll of cotton. He whipped his eyes across the crowd.

“Orry, come away.” Brett tugged his arm.

“Philadelphia express—final call!” The stentorian voice echoed through the depot.

That broke the tension, set up a scramble for the door. After a nod of thanks to the man with the shotgun, Orry turned and reluctantly followed his sister to the platform.

The express was rattling toward Wilmington. Sadness mingled with anger when Orry spoke.

“I didn’t know that kind of hostility existed. Men ready to fight one another in public places. Incredible.”

His erstwhile naiveté dismayed him. The situation in the country had deteriorated far beyond anything he had imagined. If some people envisioned a peaceful separation of the states, they were imbeciles.

“I’m glad we left when we did,” Brett said. “You could have been badly hurt, and for no purpose.”

His hand still throbbed from punching the man in the checked suit. He peered at his knuckles. “Guess you’re right. But I don’t like running from a fight.”

She tried to make light of it. “You ran to catch a train.”

Unsmiling, he muttered, “Damn Yankee trash.”

“Orry, when you talk that way, you’re no better than those oafs in the restaurant.”

“I know. Funny thing is, I don’t much care about that.” He drew a deep breath. “I resent having to behave like a gentleman. I hate turning tail. I’ll never do it again.”

Their welcome at Belvedere was warm, although Maude was not part of it; she had gone to Philadelphia for a few days. The visitors presented their gifts—Brett promised to send Constance a duplicate of the broken pelican—marveled at how the children had grown, and after a fine meal of duckling went off gratefully to bed. Orry slept nine hours but didn’t feel rested when he woke.

“I can’t wait to show you the Bessemer converter,” George said at breakfast. He was full of energy and enthusiasm, which had the curious effect of heightening Orry’s sour feeling. George had done nothing to offend him. It was the whole North that offended him. He hoped the mood would pass; it threatened to spoil the reunion.

George put a match to his second cigar of the morning. “Soon as you’re finished, we’ll take a look. I’m paying a steep royalty, but in the long run I anticipate that it’ll be worth it.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” Orry said.

“Oh, I am—to a point, The time saving is enormous. But there’s still a problem with the process. I’ll show you.”

Orry didn’t want to ride all the way across the smoky, foul-smelling grounds of Hazard Iron, step into an iron-roofed shed, and there peer at an egg-shaped contraption that rotated on a pivot. But he did it to humor his friend.

The workmen had finished a blow and were tapping the converter into a floor trench. The steel flowed like a ribbon of light.

Proud as a parent watching a child, George said, “A chap in Wales solved Bessemer’s worst problem. Did Cooper tell you about that?”

“Yes, but I didn’t understand most of the explanation.” His tone said he didn’t care.

George’s reaction veered from disappointment to annoyance, but only for an instant. “Bessemer was producing what the trade refers to as burnt iron. He purged out the carbon, which meant there was none to transform the iron to steel, and he had no idea of how to put some back in. The Welshman experimented with adding charcoal and manganese oxide. Next he tried a compound the Germans call
spiegeleisen
—iron, carbon, some manganese. That did the trick. While Bessemer and the Welshman wrangle over who owes what to whom, I’m experimenting with
spiegeleisen
and paying Bessemer his royalty at the same time—even though his American patents are still up in the air. I’m not yet convinced the process is practical, though.”

“Why not?”

“It involves too much guesswork. The carbon content can be judged only by the color of the converter flame. That’s no way to make steel reliably, batch after batch. Another fellow may have come up with a method better than Bessemer’s, a German-born Englishman named Karl Siemens. I’ve written him—Orry, you aren’t interested in a syllable of this, are you?”

“Of course I am.”