I could plead tiredness or some other excuse, but in this jrnl. I try to hew to the truth. On this occasion the truth is painful. I looked at those 2 black men as something less than what I am — therefore of no consequence.
I have suffered stinging attacks of conscience ever since. I was wrong today — as thousands in this army who think and behave the same way are wrong. Libby is still working its change upon me. New thoughts and impulses stir — so unsettling, I cannot help wishing they would go away. But they won't, any more than the negro question will go away. Though countless millions might like to do so, we can no longer push the black man through some door & lock him out of sight, content to believe his color renders him unworthy of our concern & relieves us of responsibility to treat him as a fellow human being.
It is a shameful thing I did — rather, did not do this afternoon. Writing it down helps somewhat. It is a first step, albeit not one which will induce a relaxation of my conscience.
I do have a conviction there will be other steps, however; where they will lead I cannot say, except in a most general way. I think I am starting down a road I have never walked, nor even seen, before.
110
Along the Ashley, those old enough to remember the Mexican War and how Orry Main came home from it thought history had repeated itself with Orry's older brother. Orry had lost an arm, Cooper a son. Hardly the same thing, yet the results were oddly similar. Each man was changed, withdrawn. The less charitable gossiped about severe mental disorder.
Cooper no longer insulted the occasional Mont Royal visitor by forcing him or her to listen to radical opinions. It was presumed that he still held such opinions, though one couldn't be positive. He limited his conversation with outsiders to pleasantries and generalities. And although Sherman's huge army was rumbling down on Atlanta, he refused to discuss the war.
But it remained very much on his mind. That was the case one hot June evening when he sequestered himself in the library after supper.
Cooper loved the library with its aroma of fine leather mingled with inevitable low-country mustiness. There in the corner stood the form holding Orry's old army uniform. Above the mantel spread the realistic mural of Roman rums, which Cooper had delighted in studying when he sat on his father's knee as a boy.
Although the orange of sunset still painted the wall opposite the half-closed shutters, he lit a lamp and was soon in a chair, using a lap desk to write. The metal nib scratched so loudly he didn't hear the door open. Judith walked in with a newspaper.
"You must look at this Mercury, dear. It contains an overseas dispatch that came through Wilmington day before yesterday."
"Yes?" he said, glancing up from the memorial he was drafting to send to the state legislature. It argued for preventing further loss of life any means of a cease-fire and immediate peace negotiations.
His question said he wasn't greatly interested in interrupting the work to read overseas dispatches. So Judith said, "It concerns the Alabama. A week ago Sunday, she went down in the English Channel. A Union vessel named Kearsarge sank her."
Instantly, he asked, "What of the crew?"
"According to this, many survived. The captain of the Kearsarge picked up seventy, and a British yacht that sailed out of Cherbourg harbor to watch the engagement saved another thirty officers and men."
"Anything about Semmes?"
"He was one of those rescued by Deerhound, the yacht."
"Good. The men are more important than the ship."
He made the declaration with such feeling that Judith couldn't help rushing to his chair and throwing her arms around him. The Mercury fell on crumpled sheets of writing paper discarded on the floor.
"Cooper, I do love you so." She hugged his shoulders. "Everything's in disarray around us. Mont Royal has never looked shabbier. There isn't enough food. Everyone's frightened of those men living in the marshes. Yet I couldn't be more thankful to be here with you. Even with so much uncertainty, Marie-Louise is happier, and I am, too."
"So am I."
"I hope you didn't mind this interruption. I thought you'd want to know about the ship."
He reached up to pat her hand, staring away past the Roman mural to unguessable seascapes of the past. "She was a beautiful vessel. But she served the wrong masters."
Suddenly rising from his chair, he kissed her long and ardently.
The embrace left her gasping, with curls out of place. She was enraptured to see a teasing smile.
"Now, Judith, if you truly do love me, let me return to my labors. I must finish this memorial, even though our heroic legislators will tear it to shreds and dance on it. The ones who've never heard guns fired in anger will tear the most and dance the hardest."
"I'm sure you're right. But I'm proud of you for trying."
"There are no ordained results in this world, I've discovered. The trying is what counts most."
She left him scribbling in the last of the dusty orange daylight. She had worked hard all day — since returning, she had taken on many of Madeline's duties — and in the late afternoon had spent an hour with Clarissa. Though Cooper's mother was unfailingly pleasant, her memory loss made such visits taxing. By supper Judith was exhausted. Yet now, closing the library door, she felt light as a wisp of breeze-blown dandelion seed. Carefree. Sherman's host might be marching across the moon instead of into Georgia.
For the first time since Charleston, she was certain. Her beloved husband was a new, healed man.
It was Benjamin who wielded the velvet ax. After the fact, Orry realized he was the logical choice because of his suave, diplomatic style. The summons came a few days after the reception at Treasury.
"First, I must establish that I am speaking on behalf of the President," Benjamin said to Orry, who sat rigidly on the far side of the desk. "He hoped to see you in person, but the press of duties —" A supple gesture finished the thought.
"The President wanted to express deep gratitude for your concern for his welfare — specifically, your warning of a possible plot against his life. Not to mention the lives of a number of the rest of us," he added with his customary sleek smile.
Orry felt sweat trickling to his collar. In the summer heat, the voices of State Department functionaries sounded sleepy beyond the closed door. That was the moment the image of the velvet ax popped into his head.