Of the four presidential candidates that year, only one was thought to be an outright abolitionist, and though that man received almost three million fewer votes than his rivals and not a single vote in ten Southern states, that man was elected President. Many white Southerners believed the only distinction between President Abraham Lincoln and John Brown was that John Brown was dead.
Just six weeks after Lincoln's election, the Convention of the People of South Carolina met to briefly debate, then unanimously adopt an Ordinance of Secession. Church bells pealed, militiamen marched, and bonfires roared in the streets.
The new militias drilled on the Washington Racecourse. The Charleston Light Horse wore gray pantaloons, high cordovan boots, and a short green jacket crisscrossed with gold braid. Enlisted men had gray kepis; officers wore a black planter's hat embellished with an egret's plume.
Edgar Puryear and Henry Kershaw were elected lieutenants and Jamie Fisher was enrolled as Chief of Scouts.
Charleston's ladies turned out to admire the Light Horse's agreeably frightening drills: left hand on the reins, right on the saber, each bold rider drawing his blade in a flashing silver arc before crashing through the ranks of straw dummies. The dummies carried broomstick rifles and were dressed in Federal blue.
The ladies admired these young men who had spurned the dishonored red, white, and blue for the brave new palmetto banner.
Rosemary Haynes cheered until she was hoarse.
Andrew Ravanel was transformed. The melancholic roisterer became cheerful; the man who'd been oblivious of other's sensitivities became solicitous.
As a servant of the new republic, Andrew Ravanel became a king.
Like thieves in the night, Charleston's Federal garrison withdrew itself into Fort Sumter, the powerful island fortress in the heart of Charleston harbor. Indignant Charlestonians protested this seizure of Carolina property and Mr. Lincoln was informed that any attempt to relieve or supply Fort Sumter would be severely rebuked.
When she came home to her own doorstep after a morning applauding cavalry drills, Rosemary's heart sank. She took a deep breath and comforted herself: Meg is waiting for me. Those mornings the Light Horse didn't drill, Rosemary woke with a headache and stayed in bed until noon.
Rosemary Butler Haynes knew she mustn't give in to disaffection. John Haynes was a good man. Had John Haynes ever claimed to be a horseman? On the contrary, he joked about his poor seat. If John Haynes's fingers were ink-stained, John was in trade: how could they not be stained? Yet some mornings after her husband left for work, sitting alone, the memory of Andrew Ravanel's kiss overwhelmed her. A chasm had opened between her and Charlotte. When her old friend called at 46 Church Street, "Miss Rosemary, she ain't at home"; "Miss Rosemary, she indisposed.'' How could Rosemary chat with the old friend who shared Andrew's home, his life, his bright hopes, his bed? Rosemary tried very hard to banish regrets for what her life might have been.
Rosemary's husband brought small gifts; a silver bud vase, a rose-gold filigree brooch. Was it John's fault the vase was too fussy and the brooch didn't match anything Rosemary wore? John never talked politics and never watched the Light Horse drills. He even defended Charleston's few remaining Unionists: "Can't we differ without impugning honest men?" Every morning excepting the Sabbath, John walked from Church Street to his office on the Haynes & Son wharf.
All day, he negotiated with ship captains, shippers, consignors, and insurers.
One spring evening, Rosemary happened to be at the front windows as her husband hurried up the steps of his home, a glad smile flickering on his lips. Thereafter, she avoided the front windows when John was due. Rosemary stayed in her room while John played with Meg for an hour before supper.
After supper, they heard Meg say her simple prayers and put her to bed.
Then John Haynes read aloud to Rosemary from Bulwer-Lytton or some other improving novelist. "Of course, my dear, if you'd prefer something lighter? One of Mr. Scott's works?”
John concluded every evening with prayers for Charleston and the South. He prayed its leaders would be wise. He prayed for the health and happiness of friends and kinfolk, one at a time, naming each. At the top of the stairs, as they turned to their separate bedrooms, John Haynes sometimes inquired hopefully how his wife was feeling.
"No dear," Rosemary would murmur. "Not tonight.”
Sometimes, Rosemary felt so guilty that she'd say too brightly, "Oh, I feel fine, John." Her husband would spend the night with her and depart the house next morning whistling. Rosemary desperately wished John wouldn't whistle. Whistling gave her a headache.
Their little daughter was Rosemary and John's shared joy.
The father said, "When I drove little Meg to White Point Park, she stood up in her yellow shawl and saluted the soldiers. When a cavalryman drew his saber to return her little salute, the blade's scrape against its scabbard frightened Meg and our poor darling burst into tears.”
The mother said, "Did you see what our scamp did with her blue shoes? She never liked them, so she told Cleo to give them to some poorer child. 'I gots too many shoes.' “
Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas followed South Carolina out of the Union.
Although that January was exceptionally cold — there'd been snow in the Piedmont — Charlestonians ignored the discomfort to attend the first Race Week ever held in an independent South Carolina.
John Haynes had canceled his New York and Philadelphia excursion boats but filled vacancies with Richmond and Baltimore tourists.
Judges of horseflesh said Langston Butler's Gero's matchup with John Carney's Albine was the most thrilling race in a hundred years; it was rumored Butler had turned down $25,000 for Gero.
Hibernian Hall had been decorated in patriotic motifs for the St. Cecilia Society ball. The gay banners of Charleston's militia companies adorned the walls and a ferocious (if somewhat cockeyed) eagle had been painted upon the dance floor.
As a ball manager, John Haynes wore a white boutonniere.
The society's orchestra was composed of house servants spared from their usual duties. It was a standing Charleston joke that Horace, the orchestra master, could not read a note of the music he arranged so fussily before him. Nevertheless, his versatile orchestra performed stately French quadrilles as well as the exuberant reels the young people preferred — reels driven by Cassius's flashing banjo.
This evening on the brink of war, Charleston's belles had never been more beautiful. These young virgins were every grace and prayer for which brave men have ever fought and died. No one in the ballroom that night ever forgot their heartbreaking beauty.
Their squires were solemn and proud under the grave responsibilities thrust upon them. Not far beneath their visible bravado was each young man's desperate hope that he might prove worthy when the test came.
War fever pushed gaiety toward hysteria. Would the Federals abandon Fort Sumter, or must it be shelled into submission? Would Virginia and North Carolina secede? Langston Butler and Wade Hampton were in Montgomery, Alabama, to help choose a provisional president for the new Confederate States of America. Toombs, Yancey, Davis — who would be the man of the hour? Why, Jamie," Rosemary said, "why aren't you in uniform?”
"I look like a jumped-up monkey in my uniform," the slender youth admitted.
Rosemary's face was flushed with excitement. "Will we go to war, Jamie? It's awful of me, but I hope we will.”
"Andrew is bloodthirsty, too." Jamie shuddered. "Look at him. Wearing spurs at the St. Cecilia Ball! Dear me.”