Lost in the Elysian Fields, Volume Iii: The Masters of Destiny

By Craig Bell

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 11, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469122021

Craig Bell

Craig Bell spent much of his childhood on a former plantation near Savannah, Georgia dating back to Colonial times. A graduate of the University of North Carolina in English Literature, he has lived in Virginia, Germany and Peru and now resides in New England. Lost in the Elysian Fields, his second published work, is the result of eight years of research and writing.

Book preview

Lost in the

Elysian Fields

Volume III

Image502.PNG

Craig Bell

Copyright © 2002 by Craig Bell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright

owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover art credit: Isle of Hope River from Wormsloe. Oil painting by

Christopher Murphy,Jr. c. 1940.

Author photograph credit: Giles Laroche.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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CONTENTS

PART FOUR

GOING TO

DESTRUCTION AS

FAST AS WE CAN,

ON THE JERUSALEM

PATH,

OFF TO AUSTERLITZ,

VIRGIN BLOOD,

THE JAMIE MACKENZIE

LETTERS TO ANNABEL

MACKENZIE RAMSEY,

‘THIS MAUM DONE

DECIDE TO WRITE

THAT DOWN’,

FOR SHAME!,

THE MIRROR INTO

WHICH WE LOOK,

SHATTERED,

A NIGHT WITH VENUS,

NINE DAY’S FURLOUGH,

LONG, SHADOWED SUMMER,

TEARS OF FIRE, TEARS OF ICE,

INNER RINGS OF

HELL,

PART FIVE

‘DARK MOTHER

ALWAYS GLIDING

NEAR WITH SOFT

FEET’

BETWEEN SHERMAN

AND THE SEA,

HONOR OR ARMAGEDDON,

RESPICE FINEM,

THE PRIDE OF LIONS,

CHECKMATE!,

LAUGHTER OF LUNACY,

THE FREE CAUGHT,

AND THE CAUGHT

FREE,

TWELVE DAYS OF

CHRISTMAS,

BLACK DEAD OF NIGHT,

THE BLACK VEIL

PARTED,

PART FOUR

*

LOST IN THE ELYSIAN FIELDS

*

THE CONFLICT

*

GOING TO

DESTRUCTION AS

FAST AS WE CAN,

Hermitage Plantation, St. Catalina Island, Georgia, December, 1860.

Well , Alec Stephens claimed in Milledgeville just last week that indeed we are, ‘going to destruction as fast as we can.’

Andrew Mackenzie spoke with subdued exasperation, almost wearily, even a touch defensively while holding his silver dinner knife, an object absently turning over and over in hands as he responded. When finishing talking he would then pause to slide his index finger along the sharp edge only to idly resume the turning when he spoke. Annabel watched this nervous habit of her brother out of corner of eye, finding it disconcerting, even making herself nervous as glancing reflections of burning candles from flat blade flashed upon walls of room and the dozen or so guests seated at the capacious dining room table where two silver candelabra were a flickering, pyric centerpiece.

I am pleased to see this distinguished politician—our renowned ‘Georgia bantam’—has finally swung around to common sense! Now he admits the North’s policies not only just threaten, but are actually intended to destroy our way of life.

‘You know damn well what I mean,—and what Stephens means, exclaimed Andrew in a steely voice while looking at his brother Pierce with eyes narrowed, in being obviously annoyed by the deliberate sarcasm, his knife turning, finger no longer stroking the edge. For it is this crazed frenzy of secession which will instead lead us to certain ruin—."

—At least in secession, if ruined we will have been honorably destroyed!

Now boys,—now sons, gravely intoned Archibald Mackenzie from head of table, there is a place to discuss your differences and it is decidedly NOT at this dinner table before our guests.

But if I may suggest to you, my dear Archibald, began the elderly factor Weldon Whitaker in a thin, reedy voice that intensified as he spoke, it is most interesting, for your two older boys have such totally opposing viewpoints. Yet they both say,—’each course will lead to our ruination!’ Either by war or by Federal policy! Now really? Perhaps Andy and Pierce are saying the same thing and perhaps they are both mistaken in the final result. Destruction looming? By war or by policy? I say both are preposterous.

Factor Whitaker paused to peer about table,—the same stance he used when stepping onto his office balcony, six floors above the Savannah River and eye-level with bristling masts, to survey the loading of cargo from his warehouse below into the holds of ships arrayed before him,—a sight always causing his chest to swell with enormous satisfaction, not unlike the high white sails of commerce in later afternoon that strained in dilatant, seaward satiety of out blowing breeze. For this factor’s morning gratification was exceeded only upon his return to office, replete from dinner and Madeira, when he reviewed that afternoon parade of the same ships sailing and steaming from the wharves,—a potential of enrichment on one occasion engendering the rare poetic fantasy.

Those ships’ holds are like wombs, being impregnated with cotton and rice which will burst into life after their nine week nurturing voyage to Liverpool, creating the children of credit which nourish our planter’s prosperous lives! And I as their factor am father to it all by award of my seed of finance. However, factor Whitaker wisely kept such whimsical thoughts to himself, curbing the temptation to dazzle dinner companions such as at Archibald Mackenzie’s sumptuous table or even to bewilder the famed Scientific and Exact Fact Society with his artistic insights. Instead, now realizing his hold over the long stewing arguments on secession could be in peril, he hastily added,

Why, just last week my company on the Bay dispatched a sloop to Baltimore, a steam packet and barque to Philadelphia—thank you Romulus, no one makes better cornbread than Maum Psyche—two steamer packets and a brig to New York, a schooner each to Boston and Portland, and six full ships to Liverpool carrying deep within their, er, wombs so to speak, the last of our season’s cotton. Not to mention sundry Southern departures,—New Orleans, Havana and the like! I tell you, the ties of trade and commerce unite us North and South to such an extent, not to mention England, that there is simply too much at stake for one of us to want to destroy the other no matter if secession comes,—or not.

Out of respect everyone paused, expecting a head-of-table response to such novel perspective,—with one exception.

Dear Whitaker, although you are perhaps correct, I suspect you have your head buried too deeply in your ledger books! My dear factor, if you would but pause in heady pursuit of commerce to look about you,—but not at your busy waterfront or even upon the placid squares of Savannah. Instead, drop in before any courthouse in the state! Observe what is happening beyond what has already occurred, since events in these times of turmoil tend to feed upon themselves—thank you Maum Psyche, your seabass is prepared to perfection, definitely another helping—you would realize there has been a recent groundswell for secession, despite all such reasonable talk from cooler heads like Alexander Stephens. The ties of national commerce are insufficient, I fear, to restrain this beast which is stirring.

Dr. Wendell spoke dispassionately, methodically, as though he were discussing the dissection of some specimen before him, and his steady voice seemed to restore a balance to the controversy which had been raging for most of the meal. After taking a sip of wine he proclaimed in a solemn tone,

For this animal of which I speak is as a revolution, and once unleashed it will run its course as do all revolutions, whether to preserve us,—or to consume.

But factor Whitaker has a point does he not, even if this ‘animal’ as you say breaks from his bindings,—which is that the North will never fight! For their primary interest is their factories, their mills, railroads, canals, indeed their commerce—yes, Romulus, you may now bring the decanter of malmsey from the sideboard and then prepare those glasses—er, their high and mighty business, for they make money from us in taking our cotton for their mills and selling to us what we do not manufacture, do not produce. They will not jeopardize all that.

By deference of position at head of table with his elder son Andrew anchoring the opposite pole, seated upon the chair formerly occupied by his mother a quarter century or more previous,—and by all that his position reflected, it being his table, his house, his meal, his wine, his china, his silver, his servants, his plantation, everyone waited patiently for the elder Mackenzie to conclude his remarks, politely permitting a period of silence to follow each sentence to make certain he had actually finished.

"Hrruumph! For I maintain all the North knows is but one thing, and values it above all, and only wants to preserve,—her money!

A silence fell upon the table since Archibald Mackenzie picked up neither knife, fork, or glass which would thereby signal a conclusion to his speech; finally Pope Drayton, who knew his brother-in-law well and feared not a tactless transgression, responded questioningly.

And thus we secede, Archie, and then the Republicans under this rube Lincoln blithely turn a downy Christian cheek to this half of the newly sundered country? My dear sir,—forget not the rabid abolitionists! They will never relent until we are crushed, our way of life demolished and the black race, placed by Providence in our care to bring their souls to Christian virtue—indeed Maum Psyche, thank you, only you can prepare eggplant properly—freed, but only to labor in their mills for even less then the Irish pittance.

Pope raised his glass to his lips while pushing back his chair slightly as though to settle himself into a comfortable position for imbibing his wine. But before savoring wine or eggplant he winked at his favorite niece Annabel,—to then add in jocular tone of voice,

"Come to think of it perhaps that’s a blessing! If the Yankee capitalists come southward to build their finishing mills here on our plantations, why then our ladies, freed of all onerous care of our people, will be able to indulge in what lies closest to their hearts,—fashion shopping! Right here in their own mills, instead of voyaging to Savannah, New York, or Philadelphia. The more enterprising, such as Ansie and her dear tante Lucille, could even design their personal fashions on the spot,—n’est pas, Annabel?"

Pope smiled benignly at his niece whom he enjoyed needling, knowing of her penchant for matters of mind and music and her disdain for the pleasures of her aunt Lucille or even his wife Sybil, both of whom were quite capable of devoting entire mornings, afternoons, or the entire contents of purses within confines of a single dry goods store; he hoped to provoke a saucy retort.

—But, but …, began Andrew.

Heavens Pope, such an original and adorable thought, effused an overriding Lucille. The Yankees cannot then be all bad.

"—Tut, tut Pope, dear cousin, you go too far! I have long since emancipated myself from my plantations, never regretting it one whit,—and without becoming a seamstress or a shopper! And, cher ami, if conflict comes then I shall simply move from Newport to Paris."

And, Madame Abercorn, for those of us who don’t speak French?, queried Pope, disappointed in having incited responses from the wrong females.

—But, but, persisted Andrew, —but if, as Uncle Pope suggests, it is the abolitionists who hold the key to peaceful secession, and if they in Philadelphia and New England will never relent, that brings us right back to Alec Stephens—no thank you, Maum—who says we are bound for destruction.

—And you just assume, brother, that following secession we will just roll over, and let them triumph?

Pierce’s voice was again crisp with sarcasm.

—Sons, ENOUGH!

Dr. Wendell, having finished his helping of bass, took off his spectacles and regarded the elder Mackenzie.

Perhaps it is only fair to let them argue this out as Weldon suggests, my dear Archibald. For it is neither you nor I, or my dear Pope here, or our sage factor who will be charging the field with sabers flashing and bare, stormed at by shot and shell as they enter the mouth of hell. It will be these brave young men,—precisely their generation.

An excellent point indeed, if regrettably so my good doctor, the possible loss of our youthful warriors,—and Maum Psyche, as soon as you finish serving the cornbread and Beatrice has cleared the table, would you please bring forth the syllabub.

Emboldened by Archibald Mackenzie’s favorable response, Dr. Wendell decided to broaden this tack of the discussion; he eagerly turned to Thurston who sat at his side.

Both you and Jamie, Thurston, young men perhaps destined for the glory of battle, you two have been uncharacteristically quiet. What shall it be, secession or patience? And if the former, will the Yankees fight?

When I was Princeton following the secession crisis of ‘50 and ‘51, when South Carolina like today was ardent to secede, we often debated the issue. Of course the Southern contingent vigorously defended our point of view and as in most debates among comrades—one more, Maum Psyche, I simply haven’t the will to resist—things could become heated, passions running high. But once debate was over we were again the best of friends,—excepting, and Thurston picked up his cornbread stick to hold it before him, those abolitionist sympathizers. I came to realize their cause was as a crusade, albeit a misguided one and that we were anathema to them, for after crossing verbal swords in debate if I were to hail one of these fellows later with a ‘halloa there’, all I would get back would be a cold stare. Thurston began to butter his cornbread. So if the abolitionists have their way in Washington, there will be war,—but if so I believe it will be quickly over once they understand our fierce determination, and after some blood has been shed the Yanks will back off. As Mr. Mackenzie says,—so they can resume pursuit of their almighty dollar.

—But you did not say, began Andrew,

—If you are for secession, finished Pierce.

Thurston took a sip of wine; he was anxious not to offend either friend.

I would rather get it over with, I suppose, sooner rather than later, so I can be free to sow my rice in April and plant my cotton in May.

Spoken like a true planter!, exclaimed the elder Mackenzie.

—And you, Jamie?

Dr. Wendell had again taken off his spectacles.

The chance to create a new country, a new sovereign state, replied Jamie breathlessly, who could resist? But this time lets make it a monarchy, restoring what we foolishly lost! We could vote for a king or queen,—and thus I would vote for Queen Mary, sitting right here. She could then replace her petite Dovecote with a palace,—and call it Kingscote.

Mary Abercorn was amused. For some time, ever since his Newport visit in 1854 which had been repeated on subsequent summers, she had kept her eye on Jamie, regarding him as unlike the other Mackenzies, indeed atypical of most plantation youths and she harbored secret plans for the young man which she had broached privately to Dr. Wendell,—expecting, and successfully finding, a sympathetic ear.

And where, darling Jamie, shall I place my Southern Versailles, my Nymphenburg, my Caserto, my house of Windsor? Never in this swamp to be sure, replete as it is with snakes and alligators and gnats and mosquitoes! That would hardly do,—excepting perhaps for a Cleopatra who I decidedly am not.

You should know better than to ask Jamie anything serious, Doctor, said Andrew, for you will always get the fanciful answer!

—Which is often the best answer.

Dr. Wendell replaced his spectacles as the clear voice of Annabel rang out, musically so like a soprano.

And what, pray tell, becomes of us,—myself, Elena and Millicent here? Thank you, Beatrice. We are simply to sit here tending to your plantations while you husbands, and even sons, go off to do battle in Virginia or Maryland? Gracious! Don’t you men ever think of what your actions might lead to?

My dear, said Thurston, precisely why to get it over with,—as soon as possible.

—And if, my dear husband, it is not over with, so quickly?

Elena regarded her husband Andrew across the table.

Is not it refreshing to hear Annabel raise this forbidden topic, Andrew,—which you claim is too dangerous for my ears?

Andrew Mackenzie looked flustered; he even blushed.

My only concern was not to alarm you for the inevitability, er, of being alone on our place—.

—Why, a voice almost shrieked, Pierce says we have nothing to fear from our people, that those are upcountry rumors!

Millicent Mackenzie, who was holding a teaspoon of syllabub in midair, spoke excitedly as she was prone to do, if often merely repeating her husband’s words and rarely projecting her own thoughts, such as they were. This pliable deprivation had elicited the remark from Mary Abercorn in an aside to Dr. Wendell at the time of their wedding, Now Pierce will have two pillows upon his bed.

Pierce looked embarrassed,—as if caught breaching a naughty topic before the ladies, right under his father’s nose.

Well, now, er, I only mentioned the rumor,—for fear you might, from some other—yes Romulus, a bit more, thank you—hear from some other source, in perhaps worse, er, form …

He raised his spoon of quivering syllabub to lips as if eager to smother further speech.

The elderly gentleman at head of the table cleared his throat.

Of course we have nothing to fear from our people! Perhaps only upon those plantations under careless management where the people are perhaps already disgruntled, but certainly even there our local militia could maintain civil order,—surely Dr. Wendell, you do not see this as a threat?

A great imponderable,—for we all say our own house is in order. But in point of fact, even in absentee planter situations such as Montivideo on the Ogeechee where the Arnolds retreat like clockwork back to Providence as soon as the temperature hits ninety, or the former great Butler holdings to the south of St. Catalina—a gentleman who we all know lived year round in Philadelphia—we never had problems. Yes, thank you, a spoonful more, this is delicious, Maum Psyche. But I cannot vouch for the vast, new cotton lands of Mississippi, Arkansas, or Texas.

With such uncertainties before us, the possibility,—yes, let me say it openly,—of slave uprisings, Andrew was again rubbing his thumb, albeit this time along the curvaceous edge of coffee spoon, Romulus having whisked his knife away before the desert course, and also not knowing if England will support our cause, and on top of that the acknowledged fact of greater industrial resources and population in the North,—faced with these unknowns for us to rush and throw down the gauntlet, provoking this greater power without reasoned discussion or negotiation, without first striving to resolve our discord peacefully,—this is the voice of caution, of Mr. Stephens.

‘You well know, brother, that this conflict has been brewing for generations and is replete with endless discussion,—which has only brought us to the dishonorable impasse we now find ourselves at. I agree with Thurston! Stand fast for what we know is right, and if we are attacked,—by God, we will make it so costly Lincoln will quickly say, ‘Good riddance to you!’"

—And if it becomes so ‘costly’, Pierce, that he says instead, ‘I cannot back out now and I will preserve the union,—at any cost?’

Damnation, Andy! It is our honor which is at—.

—Enough! ENOUGH! This will not be resolved here! Romulus, if you have served a fresh glass to everyone from the decanter,—indeed, I see you have,—and everyone I believe, has finished their syllabub? Maum Psyche is standing here, always at the ready with more …

The elder Mackenzie paused to regard first his servant, and then his table. The diminishing tinkle of spoons against the oval glass bowls of syllabub seemed to give affirmative confirmation to his question.

The master of the Hermitage then rose from his place at head of table to stand stiffly erect while clutching a little glass of mahogany colored liquid.

My dear guests of the Hermitage! My dearly beloved family members, those who were born upon this place and those who have come by holy matrimony to share our happiness, a special event! I hold in my hand a stem of Malmsey of 1765 vintage, the year my grandfather settled this place. This noble wine was presented to me by none other than factor Weldon Whitaker who today graces our table, as he did then on the occasion of my, uh, marriage, so many long years ago, way back in ‘27. Thus for one third of a century has this bottle has been waiting for the appropriate moment! That time is now, and I have brought it forth to share with you this Christmas. If all gentlemen would please stand.

The sibilant swish of chairs being pushed back upon carpet, of linen napkins being set aside, of cloth of coats and trousers in movement rustled through hushed dining room.

"As you all know our family motto has always been ‘Ferrum non au-rum’. In spite of that a toast of gratitude for our prosperity! Thanks to the Good Lord for all our bountiful lands! A tribute to all of us present and to all our peoples, white and black, who have brought these lands into unequaled fertility and wealth! May this happiness be preserved, no matter what course our noble state of Georgia may choose, and if she chooses secession may we sustain, under the protection of God, what we have become,—the masters of our destiny."

Archibald Mackenzie raised his glass high above his head.

To this I toast!

A dozen voices murmured in repetitive tribute,

To this we toast!

Now, my friends please bring your glasses to the library where Annabel and Jamie have arranged for a period of parlour music followed by coffee, I believe Beethoven, Schubert, Gottshalk and, er, my dear who was he you said,—that Burly …

Dear father, the Frenchman Berlioz!

Old Barley-oats, grinned Jamie, it’s just that simple.

By custom at the Hermitage, as upon most plantations, the guests upon rising from dinner table first made obligatory pilgrimage to the kitchen to complement the cook, in this case Maum Psyche and her bevy of assistants; only the elder Mackenzie was clearly exempt from this ritual although Jamie, since he was still living with his father, sometimes deferred his thank-you’s until later. But Mary Abercorn never performed this deferential minuet through swinging doors of pantry, preferring to complement Maum Psyche in her own fashion and on her own terms.

Thus Archibald Mackenzie found himself alone with Mary Abercorn for a moment in the library.

Dear Archibald, thank heaven we have remained the best of friends,—for as I told you in Newport in ‘55 it would turn out far preferable this way when we are free to speak our minds to each other without legal or celestial entanglement. Now I have something of extreme importance to tell you.

Archibald’s face reddened only slightly, for in the ensuing years he had grown more accustomed to Mary Abercorn’s allusions to his aborted, and what he subsequently regarded as precipitate, proposal of marriage to that Newport dowager as capacious of flesh as of finance, his face flushing less each year; in fact he was now at the point if she were remiss in reference to what had then been an acutely embarrassing moment his feelings would have been decidedly hurt.

I shall never dispute you, dear Mary.

Excellent, now you listen to me! Upon the first available boat after the new year I am embarking with my favored niece Felicia,—you remember, daughter of the long deceased Caustin, she who has lived in the bosom of my son Montgomery’s household as one of his own,—she the pretty one, more than any other of our blood I must confess, a charmer who always calls me ‘Grandmere’, she who resembles Jenny Lind in face and tone and who also loves the theater and other good things. Well, I am taking her directly to London and thence to the Continent, and we require a young man to escort us. I say none other than Jamie!

Jamie? Jamie! Well, I don’t,—and he knows?

No, not yet, but you listen to me,—defend Georgia’s honor with only two of your sons! I have consulted Dr. Wendell and he wholeheartedly agrees. Get Jamie away from this rabid hotbed of secession, he is not meant for this. We will together go on his Grand Tour! He will come to Rome to sketch and paint and study the ancients, and we will return come autumn when all of this political foolishness has blown over,—by one tempest or another.

Mary, I must think, I cannot just consent,—and besides he is of age to do as he pleases.

Of that I am aware, but you know very well he will accede to your wishes. You listen to me, Archibald,—you and your iron grip of destiny. For I know from life the only thing you and I, or anyone, is truly master of,—and that is the here and now, the certainty of the very moment.

Mary Abercorn peered at the master of the Hermitage with her beady eyes, and then raising her bejeweled hand high before her, arm draped in a black satin shawl, she made imperious, theatrical sweep before her toward the elaborately carved, glass encased bookcases filled with tooled and gilded leather-bound folios and quartos, including Archibald Mackenzie’s prized collection of archaeological and architectural tomes.

"And if you do not believe that, come my dear Archibald, first peruse your Stuart and Revett and your beloved Piranesi, and then join us, come with us, with Jamie and Felicia and me to view firsthand,—the ruins of imperial, invincible Rome."

***

ON THE JERUSALEM

PATH,

Tybee Roads and Savannah, Georgia, February 1861.

Jamie rapped on the door, paused, and then rapped again, this time louder; he was impatient.

The door opened but a crack, and he could barely make out two white eyeballs in a black face.

Open up, Jonah!—It’s only me, Jamie!, he persisted, to then hear a youthful female voice in background call out,

Gracious, Jonah! You had better become accustomed to master Jamie!

Jamie began to laugh at Jonah’s extreme caution, if still impatient. As the door to the stateroom swung a few more inches from jamb to reveal young Jonah clad in brilliant scarlet velvet, he glimpsed Felicia hovering in the dim light behind her slave.

Quick, cried Jamie, nudging the door further ajar with elbow and beckoning to Felicia, follow me to deck! We’re passing Tybee lighthouse where flies our new flag! That’s our last land,—for before us lies nothing but clouds and sea until Bishop Light of Scilly.

Felicia turned on one foot in her excitement, almost spinning.

"Oh Grandmere,—Jamie says we’re passing Tybee light where our new flag is already raised. Oh, may I please go and look and say goodbye, cry out my ‘au revoir’ to our homeland?"

Entering through door as Jonah withdrew while repeatedly bowing his head, Jamie saw Felicia’s grandaunt Mary Abercorn ensconced in a veloured wing-back chair that resembled, to his mind, a diminutive throne, her body swathed in a silken shawl, book upon tartan lap robe, spectacles upon face, small table with oil lamp, teacup, and writing materials at elbow while her two Scottish terriers Dun and Dee dozed at her slippered feet. Everything suggested the certainty of being comfortably settled into place—as though she had existed this way for some time and had every intention of prolonging her nested position for the foreseeable future, if not for duration of voyage.

Mrs. Abercorn, do come,—join us on the upper deck!

Even as he breathlessly spoke Jamie realized how impetuous his words were, realizing that on almost any other occasion he would have had the wit to stifle them into mere thoughts behind a polite bow, smile, and simple greeting,—but at the moment he was not only impatient, but excited.

Embarrassed by the absurdity of his words—it being obvious even to the most obtuse or inexperienced steward of the Arethusa that Mary Abercorn had scant intention of rising, much less ascending to the upper deck,—Jamie found himself blushing as he awaited the certainly clever, and probably barbed, retort he had invited upon himself by his burst of boyish enthusiasm.

Darling Jamie! What sane person says goodbye to the symbol of that which, in blind fury, is destroying one’s world? My dear boy, instead come in due time to inform me so I may give salutations to John Bull at Bishop or Eddystone Light.

But Felicia may come …?

—Oh please Grandmere!

Of course! Pay homage to that folly,—and thank your lucky stars you have escaped it.

Bounding from room with cheeks red Jamie heard the bustle of Felicia’s petticoats behind him as he ran up the staircase to suddenly burst into glowing sunlight of upper deck,—finding it a relief to have a brisk breeze blowing against burning face, rejoicing in seeing above eastern horizon of sea towering clouds ascendant far heavenward in shapes chromatic, ephemeral, fantastic.

Look Felicia, exclaimed Jamie while grasping a glinting brass rail and pointing toward a setting sun, how glorious,—the sun is going to sink right behind Tybee light.

The weathered teak deck of the Arethusa rose, swayed, and plunged to pulsing rhythm of steam engine and paddles as forward and over the Captain’s cabin a whistle shrieked in evening air, startling soaring sea gulls into a raucous cawing. The two youths faced the shore as silent, heavyset pelicans skimmed the waves, and they watched the fast receding beach bordered by dunes and fringed with palm trees and pines,—everything appearing flat, small, insignificant, a thin tenuity of variegated beige and green caught between a monochrome immensity of sky and sea, and where the slender shaft of lighthouse was on verge of being silhouetted by a plunging disc of sun.

Cousin Jamie, just look how the sun is slipping right behind Tybee light! How memorable for us!

Jamie gave the lighthouse a glance and then turned to watch Felicia: she was staring, rapt at the sight, hand to throat, her pert expression, her slightly upturned nose and quick enthusiasm—if not the blonde hair—reminding him of his sister Annabel when at the same impressionable age at about the time his family had first summered in Newport. He then felt a mild but recurring pang of doubt at the wisdom of his precipitous decision to accompany for a year’s excursion abroad the weighty, remarkable, even ‘top-heavy’—that being the description he secretly used in thinking of Mary Abercorn since it seemed to catch both her fleshly bulk and that equivalent mental weight—and her rather ‘light-headed’ so he had thought, adopted grandniece Felicia.

But already, Jamie pondered, I can see benefits of escorting someone so much younger for her untarnished, girlish exhilaration at the world around us might just jolt me out of my recent rut, make me rethink those jaded rounds with boring friends, the needless suffering of overheated bluster from all those drunken firebrands. What a stupid fracas that was last night! And then,—just imagine all the paintings we’re to see! I’d gladly trade Lamar and his fanfaron hussars, dragoons and all such militant pomp for Rubens and Raphael any day, and with Mrs. Abercorn as knowing guide to all the sights,—well, to be caught between such two opposing petticoats might just prove to be decidedly good company. And I’ve been assured I’ll have as much time to myself as I wish, and it’ll be good for sure to see Jeff Easton again when we finally get to Rome.

‘Yes, Felicia, said Jamie perfunctorily, his mind already roaming abroad, the sun is setting upon Tybee light."

And as well, setting upon Savannah and home!

And as well,—rising upon Italy and Rome.

And as well, setting upon our state of Georgia!

And as well,—rising upon land of King’s George.

And as well, setting upon our new, sovereign country of—, and Felicia paused to give Jamie a baffled look as if uncertain of what to say, her hand to mouth as Jamie gulped, all the heated arguments of the last few weeks coming forcibly to mind as he tried to complete her words himself, —and our, sovereign, er, country of …, he struggled, tongue-tied, his words catching in throat, seeming too direct, too risky, too revolutionary for ears of naive girl or even for himself to utter, sounding to him like a silly curse or a malediction. Then he realized he could not conclude, looking upon Felicia,—their little verbal game.

But Felicia suddenly looked serious, and furrowing an exquisite brow and with eyes unusually round, direct, she stared at him.

—Setting upon what Grandmere calls, ‘a despicably pleasant way of life!’

And abruptly the humor returned to the girl’s face; she laughed and turned to face the slender, vertical defiance of lighthouse thrusting above sea and now silhouetted against a pale, flat twilight of sky, spark of high gleaming in glass glans of shaft.

And whirling about Felicia gave Jamie a look mixed of mischief and familial adoration.

But cousin Jamie, just think,—the sun will also set tomorrow evening, and the next evening, and the next over Tybee light, over Savannah, over Georgia, over our ‘Confederate States of America’—as well as over wherever we shall have been.

***

The bartender pulled one end of his long moustache in pondering a response, as if this gesture also tugged upon a mental balancing of the pros and cons of the correct answer.

A round for everyone here if I rightly say, by agreeing with you that a new nation will—or will not—be formed this very day?

He looked into the earnest, if heated, face of the young man, the youth framed by his friends who was leaning over the counter and who had put the offer to him, and then the bartender looked beside the youth, into the faces of his invariably flushed countrymen. Proprietor Baum took note of his crowded room, mostly young men seated about tables, standing before tables, moving between tables, thronging his long counter with more entering at each opening of the door to Bay Street. There’s a good bit of dough to be made from this, for damn sure.

Yes, yes!, exclaimed the earnest young man. My brother here, and he nodded to a tall youth standing beside him, and I disagree whether our new Southern nation will be proclaimed today at the convention in Montgomery, or if debate will drag on until tomorrow or even next week. So we’ve decided to put the question to you. And if you agree with my position, why,—I’ll treat everyone here to a round of whiskey!

This very day,—or not? Proprietor Baum looked perplexed. Pulling from his black vest a pocket watch, he gave it a studied look. But today,—why there’s only sixty-five minutes left!

Of course! Thus either my brother or myself is a fool,—but that’s your risk.

Proprietor Baum paused a moment, still tweaking his moustache; he was trying to place the two young men who looked vaguely familiar.

But not familiar enough to be among my town regulars, he thought, although decidedly not upcountry, taking into account that accent, that bearing and those smart looking coats,—probably some low country planter’s sons, the two of ‘em.

He studied the taller figure who seemed a trifle less flushed and slightly older, and he stopped pulling at his moustache.

C’mon, Jerry, someone called out. You can’t have all night!

—Now only sixty-four minutes are left!

Undaunted, proprietor Baum took a steady look at the boisterous group, noting a third, younger, slight and fair youth who stood quietly to one side of the disputing brothers, and who in facial structure resembled the wagering two.

That must be it,—that’s it! They’re the three brothers,—the boys from St. Catalina, the Mackenzies, the taller one is Andrew who went to school in the north and I hear’s now practicing law here, and that’s the quiet one who went to Princeton, twin of that Ramsey’s wife, and this excitable fellow is I think called Pierce, the middle one who went to the University in Athens,—obviously, he’s the hothead.

You see, continued Pierce, who had made the offer and who was still leaning over the counter, my brother and I often disagree,—but he always, eventually, swings around to my opinion …

How you do always flatter yourself, protested Andy.

Proprietor Baum cleared his throat.

Of course, we have yet to hear from the capitol in Alabama to confirm what has happened, but I believe the new country of the Confederacy to be a fact,—that she now already exists.

—A round for all!, cried out a triumphant Pierce, turning back to his brother whom he clasped on the shoulder. You see Andy, it’s the common wish everywhere we turn and the Montgomery convention will promptly ratify that fact.

In quick gesture proprietor Baum pulled both ends of his moustache as he licked his lips in satisfaction, to then bark out to an assistant,

Haul out all them glasses Jarvis, the ones in the boxes below the counter, and fill each of ‘em with the house special. Lowering his voice and leaning over a kneeling Jarvis he added, Keep careful count of each, and other than theirs,—fill ‘em all just like for the ladies.

And this assistant shot back a grin in knowing that this house euphemism translated as, ‘just under three quarter full.’

Pierce faced Andy, gloating expression upon face.

Accept it Andy, foregone conclusion, a new country it will be sooner rather than later, if not already, and taking the brimming glass of whiskey from counter Pierce downed the contents in a heads-up gulp.

No doubt, no doubt, responded Andy wearily in accepting the proffered glass from proprietor Baum. Thank you, Jerry. After taking a sip, he turned back to face Pierce. "And thank God you were not in Charleston where I was last month, for what is a craze here is there a fever—a raging, terminal one. That furied secession contagion has inflamed our judgement and has created a ferment consuming all the Southern states,—hurling us across this modern Rubicon. Hic iacet lepus."

Late in evening in the City Hotel on the Bay, yet the crowd of men in the barroom seemed to increase by the minute, swelling to the point where it would not seem possible to find a place to sit or stand,—or even to be able to see to find one’s way about, the dense smoke from innumerable cigars giving the room the appearance of a ship caught in a blanket of fog. Standing at center of counter about the Mackenzies was a large and tumultuous contingent of youths, many having come to the barroom of the hotel after an evening of dinner parties and town amusements ostensibly to celebrate the eve of departure of one of their own,—the sailing of the youngest Mackenzie brother on the next day on the start of his Continental tour.

In point of fact most would have come to the City Hotel in any case, Jamie’s send-off serving as the most convenient of excuses to bid an early adieu to tedious dinner parties or lackluster parlor dances, to lady friends or even to wives. For although it was Friday night the spate of great seasonal balls and gatherings of the season of Christmas and New Year’s were largely pleasures of the past. That enticing social whirl had been largely replaced by highly popular itinerant, touring amusements, exhibits to which the youths flocked in droves,—whether to goggle at the ‘fabled bear-lady of Bavaria’ on exhibit in the lobby of the Savannah theater, or to cat-call to ‘dwarf, six-toed wild men of Borneo’ in cages, to be seen for a dollar at the Masonic Temple, or to marvel at a widely heralded demonstration in the St. Andrew’s Society Hall of a new treatment for consumption ‘and all other diseases of air passages by inhalation of oxygen and electro-medicated vapors’, and even a few youths had blankly listened to a series of lectures organized by Friends of the Library and conducted by a touring Englishman with the untimely name of ‘ Wm. Makepeace Thackeray’, a writer of whose prior fame most youths could not claim to have had a clue, much less to have ever turned his page.

Much of their excited talk, when not fixated upon such civic events, revolved about the ongoing circulation of a petition, purportedly a proposal by Major General of the Army Lucien Lafayette Lamar who sat in seclusion at his plantation Carthage on the island of Muscogee, to gauge the interest and feasibility of establishing a city cavalry regiment under his command,—should the renowned veteran decide to tender his resignation from the Federal army. At least it was widely assumed in the barroom of the City Hotel that the ‘Hero of Vera-Cruz’ had initiated the circulation of the proposal, but this could not be confirmed directly from the horse’s mouth since the renowned officer was yet under allegiance to the Federal government in Washington. Nor could the rumor easily be squelched, having gained such currency around town,—and particularly since the stalwart soldier refused to publicly discuss the subject.

Whatever its origins, this proposal was being actively shown to eager youths by a good friend of the Major’s, one Alexander Atlas Armstrong, wealthy hardware merchant and prominent citizen who described his task to all questioning ears as, a self appointed elephant-trader for the distinguished General of Carthage. This emissary to the citizens, whether self ordained or not, had been busily distributing a sheet proclaiming,

I, the undersigned, express my interest in establishing a cavalry regiment to defend the honor of the sovereign State of Georgia, and to this noble effort I will pledge my horse, munitions and equipment.

The author was prepared at moments notice to replace the words ‘sovereign State of Georgia’, written in pencil on an otherwise ink-drafted document, with ‘Confederate States of America’ to be written in ink,—a point of detail at first conscientiously pointed out to each signee, but later allowed to slip by unmentioned, Armstrong having since discovered, Most don’t read it anyway, not even one word,—they just sign below the last name who is generally a friend.

Jamie, upon reading the petition and seeing Pierce sign the sheet with a flourish without giving the terms a glance, had been unable to restrain the wry comment: Presumably your horse could go off to battle bristling with weapons and in splendid caparison, although riderless, a remark which had drawn a scowl from Pierce, a laugh from Andy, and a cold stare from Armstrong.

A. A. Armstrong had been taken aback by the response to his proposal from the younger generation as he made his rounds about town, for he had long regarded most city youths as indolent nobs and swells interested only in carousing, gambling, and shooting—all too frequently each other—and by amusing themselves in witless dancing, cotillions and the like, unable to sustain a conversation on any topic other than such inane pleasures and certainly unwilling he was convinced, to commit themselves to any serious or worthy manly endeavor.

In dutiful rounds of social events the previous Christmas season, when placing his daughter Clarissa into debut, he had been amazed by the apathy regarding political affairs exhibited among the younger set—a pique only heightened by a seeming parallel disinterest in the convincing allure of his ‘ charmeuse Clarissa’—and then annoyed at the lackluster talk of secession which raged so hotly in his own circles; he had come to rapid conclusion the younger generation was totally hedonistic, entirely unworthy of Clarissa, honor, or even inheritance.

Therefore the fact that within a few hours he had been obliged to write out a second sheet to his petition, and then on the following day a third, and eventually even a fourth—carefully amended to state myself, my horse, etc.—as the names cascaded down the neatly ruled lines had been revelatory, and A. A. Armstrong now went about head held high when in company of the young ‘swells’ while remarking to all, The young men of today are the cream of crop of that long, distinguished lineage of chevaliers gracing the fertile soil of our noble state.

But Alexander Atlas Armstrong had merely overlooked the simple truth his petition addressed a central complaint of many young ‘swells’ daily existence,—the sheer ennui of life predestined, the blatant boredom of fortunes guaranteed with all nagging menial chores shouldered by personal attendance of slaves taken for granted. A last, a chance to ride their horses in cause more gallant than competing against each other or chasing foxes! Suddenly something to look forward to, parades, extravagant uniforms, polished brass and ostrich plumes! Excursions in carriages on shady lanes, in boats upon placid waters, sabers and swords gleaming and jangling at waist! All calculated to project a marvelous, cumulative effect upon observing ladies!

A. A. Armstrong, in all his martial zeal, never stopped to reflect his proposal would have perhaps been just as successful had his goal been a crusade to seek the Holy Grail on the Jerusalem Path, or the wresting of the China trade from the opiated mandarins of Shanghai, or the restoration of the Bourbons to power in Paris, or the promise of return to throne of the Inca descendants of Tupac Amaru in Peru, or even a war upon—.

—Have you three all signed Armstrong’s petition?

Turning in unison the Mackenzie brothers took in the grinning face of their island neighbor Thurston, who did not wait for an answer.

I myself just signed, although there were only two other names on the page,—and then Armstrong says, ‘Never too late my fine Lancelot for this is the beginning of my fourth sheet!’

Andrew awarded Thurston his practiced look of bored amusement.

Oh, every lunkhead in town has signed their damnable life, horse and fortune away.

What about equipment and uniforms?

Armstrong says to wait until Lamar makes his move,—that he will want to be involved.

And knowing him that means gold epaulets, velvet sash, feathered plumes, white gloves …

Why not try Zouave?, ventured Jamie.

With those baggy trousers, a sash as belt?

Yeah, and those Turkish caps, what do you call ‘em?

Fez,—you’d look like whirling dervishes.

Guaranteed to turn even Tante Henrietta’s head!

Much jocularity followed the thought of Henrietta Mackenzie’s head being turned by anything.

Not to mention certain lowly street life, especially that vulgar—, said Pierce in then leaning over to whisper, Prunella.

She’s all around town!

Crops up on every sidewalk!

With her purple bonnet!

Why, any ole cap will turn her head!

Oh,—to hell with the uniforms, exclaimed Thurston as he grasped the glass from proprietor Baum, which he also downed in one gulp. What’s to be commended is that we furnish our own horses, and my new stallion Buccaneer is just made to order for a gallant charge.

—Going to ride her all the way to Washington?

How about New York?

—How ‘bout all the way to Boston!

Youths came and went, clustering for a few minutes in excited chatter about something or other to slap an arm about a friend, to then move on to sit at a table, to jump to feet to then stand before counter and order another drink from proprietor Baum, to again gather for a few minutes in excited chatter …

Anatole, Pierce called out, seeing the French consul Louis d’Angouleme’s son and beckoning to the black haired youth of neatly clipped moustache, C’mon over!—Have you signed?

"Mon Dieu, alas! My father forbids, he serves Paris at the pleasure of Buchanen he says, not at ‘the pleasure of a mob.’ But he is only being his diplomatic self. So I chose a ‘nom deplume’—really a ‘nom deguerre’to be precise! Just look at line thirty-eight of sheet three and there you will see, ‘A. Napoleon’."

Pierce cheered, to then call out to proprietor Baum, Jerry,—give this man a whiskey.

Anatole gave nonchalant shrug to shoulders.

I considered ‘A. Robespierre’ but that seemed less ferocious.

At least ‘A Napoleon’ is more militant than ‘A Tarte’, said Jamie.

Anatole turned to Jamie, awarding mock bow.

Your sweet comment duly noted, sir,—and of course, you have signed in blood to defend your new sovereign state’s honor?

Jamie only smiled, for Anatole had already furnished him letters of introduction and addresses of aunts, uncles, cousins, chums, and particularly lady-friends it seemed in every arrondissement of Paris, if not every department of France.

And so the talk went, not really varying from clique to clique, table to table. It would be welcome to say more substantial conversations occurred, that such juvenile rejoinders were not the norm,—but the realistic fact remained the later the evening and then morning wore on, and as the more flushed the proud youth of the city became, the only consequences were an even further deterioration of content of speech coupled with a sharp increase in the net worth of proprietor Jerry Baum.

Much later in this nocturnal life of the barroom of the City Hotel comment among the group swung back to the topic of Jamie and his impending departure, with Anatole giving a loud toast.

To our youngest Mackenzie! May he find in Paris the warmth and generosity I have found in Savannah!

Cheers and hurrahs resounded as proprietor Baum replenished the glasses with champagne that d’Angouleme ordered for the occasion. And for a moment the chatter of uniforms and horses, companies and parades, of daring military forays already made to Washington, Chicago, St. Louis and even San Francisco was replaced by Jamie’s excited account of his intended itinerary south from Paris.

And from Paris down through Burgundy, then south along the Rhone to Avignon, once the seat of the dual Papacy, and then Lyon and along the Mediterranean to Marseilles and Nice, and the new railroad along the coast to Genoa, Pisa—.

—And why not by horse to Charleston, Richmond, and Washington?

The voice was overbearing, sneering and slurred; Jamie broke off his words.

I said Jamie,—why not on your horse to Washington, and then on to Philly, and New York?

This youth braced a hand against counter, glass in other, while staring at Jamie with glinting eyes set in a sallow face, mouth curling in mocking smile causing a long scar to crease across a cheek. Jamie recognized his distant cousin Herman Maddox, a youth known for his excessive carousing, gambling debts, and other habits considered more licentious than an acceptable norm.

So our youngest Mackenzie brother will defend, instead, our honor in Pa-rie, Mar-say, and Piss-a?

Look, cousin Herman, began Andy, taking the youth’s arm in his own, lay off,—just forget it.

I say,—partying in Pa-rie, said Herman in loud voice, wrenching off Andy’s hand, how convenient, just as things start heatin’ up, to scuttle for a year!

Herman, began Pierce, look, enough is enough …

But Herman, swaying and holding his glass, instead stepped forward to stand in front of Jamie.

Why, just as our fightin’ begins,—to be fuckin’ away in Pa-rie! Guffawing loudly, Herman then continued in falsetto voice, But Jamie never was much of a fighter,—huh, everyone? Pretty Jamie never was much active with his gun,—any sort of gun …

I defend what I believe in.

—So the little brother doesn’t believe in us?

There was an awkward silence for even if drunk and a cousin, Jamie realized Herman’s remarks could not go unanswered.

Look cousin Herman, your words are totally uncalled for, I’m setting sail in early afternoon when you won’t even remember what you’ve said. Why don’t you just go back to your—.

—Why don’t you just stay right here, and fight for our fuckin’ rights?

Thrusting his glass at Jamie, sloshing whiskey onto his shirt, Herman then held his glass at a belligerent arm’s length before Jamie’s chest, face in a mock smile.

In the ensuing dead silence Thurston abruptly stepped forward.

Your little gesture may suffice in town, sir,—but on St. Cat we do it far better, cried Thurston, flinging the contents of his glass into Herman’s face with his left hand as with his right he drew back.

And moreover,—nor am I your cousin!

Thurston’s fist caught an astonished Herman neatly upon chin, the youth staggering backwards to fall upon floor with a heavy thud, amidst a shatter of glass and clatter of overturned chair.

Again there was silence.

Anyone can tell you where to find me, exclaimed Thurston, rubbing his fist,—but the only youths who heard the remark where those to whom it was not addressed, Herman Maddox being out cold upon a sawdust floor.

Thurston turned to the barroom door to leave—a door at that very moment flung open to reveal the august presence of Alexander Atlas Armstrong who commandingly strode forward as if decked in full battle regalia, although he was not; he was trailed by several bearded men of similar statue and generation.

Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please! Major news here!

A hush slowly fell upon the smoky room as proprietor Baum placed both hands on the counter, to lean forward.

Gentlemen! A new nation exists! The Confederate States of America has just been born, in Montgomery.

The dead silence in a crowded City Hotel barroom continued, a silence as if reverberating from wall to wall with the identical effect of an abrupt cannon shot.

Gentlemen! I proclaim with pride the sovereign state of Georgia is now,—a sovereign State of the Confederacy!

Someone began to cheer in back of room.

Gentlemen! Please! Silence! I am also honored to announce, Major General Lucien Lamar has simultaneously resigned his position from the United States army.

The deafening burst of cheers drowned all conversation, and only Thurston, Anatole, his two brothers, and proprietor Baum heard Jamie exclaim over a prostrate body of Herman Maddox,

And God help us all.

OFF TO AUSTERLITZ,

Savannah, May, 1861.

Annabel, my sash,—where, where …?"

Jerking his head about, peering here and there, Thurston fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

Gracious, calm down! Maum Sarah is smoothing it out on the table.

I will never make it,—so damnably behind!

Of course you will, parades always begin late.

The words were that of an older man, experienced, reassuring,—that of Archibald Mackenzie.

Not General Lamar,—he’s as punctual as a pigeon homing to cote.

The voice of Andrew Mackenzie was teasing, quickly joined by like tone of his brother Pierce.

In his own words,—’Whoever’s late is going to trail along behind with all the riffraff.’

Jesus Christ, exclaimed Thurston.

You boys leave him be, protested Lucille Mackenzie who then turned to coo with puckered mouth upon Thurston, Dear boy, just pay my wicked nephews no attention.

Are you now ready for the saber?

Christian Ramsey stood next to his son, grasping the weapon uneasily as he had been for some time; he could not fathom why it was taking Thurston so long to dress.

Not yet,—not yet!

How could he,—heavenly humbug, hasn’t even got his shirt on yet.

The voice was shrill, tinged with disapproval, that of Henrietta Mackenzie.

Why Thurston, look,—wait, the buttons are misaligned! Adelaide Ramsey pushed her husband aside while pointing to the bottom of her son’s shirt.

Damnation!, cried Thurston, seeing his mother was right,—but-tons and eyelets were out of sequence and he was foolishly holding an extra button next to chin with nowhere to insert it.

Damnation!, he cried again, frantically undoing the buttons.

Really, Thurston, said Adelaide hesitantly, it is not becoming, if just in family, to be so constantly profane.

I’m sorry, so very sorry!

If you ask me Thurston, drawled Pierce, you’ll never arrive at the battlefield if this is your accustomed pace.

—Much less a parade, said Andrew.

Thurston glared at the two.

I didn’t ask,—and you know damn—darn—well my trousers didn’t come from the tailors until five minutes ago, Benjy had to run like hell—I mean fast all the way.

Dear,—I also wish you would not use such language before us, said Annabel.

—Or anywhere, seconded Henrietta.

Thurston looked sheepish before mother, wife and assorted hovering females.

"I’m