Charleston (21 page)

Because of close ties with Vice President Calhoun, Crittenden Lark won reelection in 1830 without opposition. To celebrate he invited two hundred friends and political allies to a banquet at the Planter's Hotel on Church Street. Several favor seekers had donated to Lark's campaign even though he incurred no expenses. Part of the money went into a private investment; he used the rest to provide his guests with a menu of pheasant and capon, oysters and French champagne.

On the November evening of the affair a late-season storm struck from the Atlantic, overturning carriages, uprooting trees, making rivers in the streets, and alerting city fire wardens to possible danger. Inside Mr. Calder's hotel, however, all was bright light and conviviality as soon as the guests dismissed their rain-soaked slaves, who had escorted them from carriages with umbrellas.

Sophie Lark had carefully chosen her gown and adorned herself for the occasion. Her hair was braided, the braids brought around to her temples and up to the peak of her forehead. Roses and lily of the valley bound with pearls enhanced the coiffure. Her husband's fine black coat, double breasted and worn open, complemented an ivory waistcoat embroidered with tiny waterfowl. His hair, curled by an iron, aped the latest London style; narrow side whiskers tapered to points near his chin.

Smoke and lively conversation filled the parlor, where guests mingled before the meal. Simms Bell enjoyed a cigar among a group of acquaintances. Simms had been in
vited because his politics compensated for his hated last name. “Tom Grimké's sister has gone, did you know?” he said to the group.

“Hurrah,” a gentleman responded. “That's two nigger-loving harpies the town's rid of.”

“Tom's a steady fellow,” someone else said. “Great benefactor of charities.”

Simms shook his head. “He isn't a loyal Palmetto man anymore. He's thrown in with Joel Poinsett and Hugh Legare and my cousin and that crowd.”

“Unionists,” someone sneered.

“Wash out your mouth,” Simms said, generating laughter.

 

Across the room Sophie cornered an elderly woman, Iola von Schreck, a distant relative of Lark's first wife. “Iola, I must tell you about the most amazing discovery. At an estate sale up in Florence a dealer in used goods found a Bible that evidently belonged to my family at one time. It shows that my mother is a direct descendant of Governor Johnson.”

“Sir Nathaniel Johnson?”

“No, his son Robert, the royal governor.” Rather wistfully she added, “I expect he belonged to St. Cecilia, don't you?”

The old lady saw where this was heading; Sophie and her husband weren't members of the elite musical society, though Sophie desperately wished to be. Iola von Schreck pursed her lips. “No, my dear, Governor Johnson arrived in, let me see, 1717, but the Society was not founded until 1762.”

Deflated only momentarily, Sophie exclaimed, “In any case I'd love to show you the Bible. Would you call on me some afternoon?”

“Perhaps in a few weeks. I'm dreadfully busy.”

The old lady escaped. Sophie Lark's manufactured genealogies and hand-drawn family trees were part of Charleston folklore. No doubt the pages of the Bible from Florence bore all sorts of erasures and clumsy forgeries.
Sophie was forever striving to join the upper ranks of society, with no success.

Sailing on, Iola overheard an exchange about Governor Hamilton. “Will he be here?” “He was invited but official business detained him in Columbia.”

She greeted Bethel Bell's daughter, Ouida, attended by Dr. Hayward. Iola wasn't sure Ouida recognized her. Gossip said Ouida's eyesight was hardly better than a mole's. She was maturing rapidly, as the hovering presence of the doctor testified.

Iola continued on; a moment later Ouida stepped in the path of a waiter with a silver tray of champagne flutes. Only his agility with the tray prevented an accident. Ouida berated him for clumsiness. Dr. Hayward took her arm, whispered until she calmed down, though not happily.

Strange young woman, Iola thought with a backward glance at the commotion. But one had to consider the stock, particularly Ouida's murdered grandmother. If Dr. Hayward thought Ouida would make a good wife, he might do well to reconsider.

 

A man said, “Have you called on the secretary of war and the infamous Peggy, Congressman?”

“I have not.” Lark tossed off the last of his fine Monongahela; half the gentlemen in the group were drinking the expensive whiskey. “Floride Calhoun refused to pay a courtesy call. Why should I?”

The Eaton contretemps sprang from the marriage of the former senator from Tennessee, John Eaton, now secretary of war, and the morally suspect Peggy O'Neil Timberlake, a tavern keeper's daughter rumored to have lived with Eaton before marrying him. Many in Washington refused to accept or associate with Peggy, which Jackson considered disloyal; Eaton was a favorite of his. The rebuff of Mrs. Eaton by Calhoun and his heiress wife had further strained the Vice President's relations with Jackson.

A new arrival thrust his hand out so Lark had to shake it. “Soames Bray, sir. Is it true that you were present when Mr. Calhoun publicly defied the President?”

“I was, and I'll testify that it was a thrilling moment.” For months Lark had dined out on the famous April banquet at Brown's Indian Queen Hotel in Washington, a gathering of pols and notables celebrating Jefferson's birthday.

“What exactly did he say?”

“After our own Senator Hayne gave the evening's address, clearly and skillfully endorsing the principle of nullification, the special toasts began. King Andrew the First rose and raised his glass. Staring straight at the Vice President, he said, ‘Our federal union—it must be preserved.'” Lark's listeners groaned.

“Calhoun wasn't daunted. He's not called the Cast Iron Man for nothing. Never flinching, never hesitating, he threw Jackson's look right back.” Lark raised his empty whiskey glass. “‘The Union—next to our liberty most dear. May we all remember that it can only be preserved by respecting the rights of the states and distributing equally the benefits and burdens of the Union.'”

The gentlemen dutifully applauded. Lark smirked. “Then Matty Van Buren leapt in, toasting mutual forbearance and reciprocal concessions, but it was too late, the line was drawn. God bless our champion, the Vice President.”

“The lines are drawn, all right,” said a man joining the group. His tone was harsh, vaguely threatening. McDuffie of Edgefield was a lawyer and congressional colleague of Lark's, a stern-faced Celt with black hair and sky-blue eyes. “The state is split. The Democratic party is split. Up in Greenville last week, they burned Calhoun in effigy.”

Cries of “Oh, my God,” and “Unthinkable” followed. McDuffie silenced them with a gesture and a frosty smile. “We got some of our own back. A young fellow who stands foursquare for nullification located one of the instigators of the demonstration, called him out, and ended his rabble-rousing with a bullet.”

“Good God. Permanently?” Simms Bell said.

“I am happy to say you're correct.” Elsewhere in the hotel a sudden bursting of glass stopped conversations in the parlor. A representative of the hotel rushed in. “No cause for alarm, merely a window broken by the storm.” Which Crittenden Lark could hear howling now that the
room had quieted. Another storm was howling across the whole state, McDuffie's news confirmed that.

“Tell me, George,” Lark said to him, “do you think we must brace for more violence?”

“I do. Jackson won't relent on the tariff, nor will we. I predict that you'll see mobs in the streets of Charleston very soon. I welcome the confrontation. Either we'll have no tariff or we'll have disunion. But it's well to be cautious.” He tapped the bosom of his frock coat. “I go armed everywhere.” The other gentlemen exchanged looks; McDuffie was a duelist of note.

Doors at one side of the room flew open. A colored footman in black livery and white hose said, “Ladies an' gentlemen, dinner's served.” The noise level rose as guests sought their partners and moved to the dining room. Lark found his wife and linked arms. Sophie looked forlorn.

“I asked Iola von Schreck to inspect my Bible, but she put me off.”

His public smile still fixed in place, Lark whispered, “For God's sake, when will you stop these social didos? You got the Bible from a junk shop and the inscriptions you added are patently amateurish. Why don't you enjoy the present instead of constantly trying to fabricate the past? It's a wonderful party, a wonderful evening.”

Blinking away tears, Sophie said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

For the congressman it was. In George McDuffie's comments about impending violence Crittenden Lark saw a glimmer of an idea. A way to harm Edgar Bell and his family without personally soiling his hands.

That autumn the SCC & R's first engine arrived from New York on the packet
Niagara
. Mr. Allen, chief engineer of the line, supervised its assembly. Mr. Miller, who had designed it, named it the
Best Friend of Charleston,
plainly hoping it would be just that for the sake of the business community. Mr. Tupper, the line's president, issued invitations to 120 prominent people for a Christmas-day excursion on the seven miles of track completed thus far.

Edgar was incensed that the line stopped at the outskirts. “A pack of pompous nitwits including Simms oppose coming farther. They claim it will poison the air and ruin the city's charm. What the devil's the point of bringing cargo to Charleston if you have to transfer it to wagons to reach the docks?”

Alex's father said this on Christmas Eve, when well fortified with rum punch. As he finished, his cheeks grew mottled. Cassandra urged him not to excite himself. His eyes closed, as though he were about to swoon. His napkin at his lips, he raised his hand to signal that he was all right.

Alex worried; she'd witnessed similar spells before. Did Papa have heart trouble? Cassandra said of course he didn't, he simply worked too hard and involved himself too deeply in affairs of his city.

 

Excited by the prospect of riding behind what people called “the iron horse,” Alex slept poorly that night. Late
on Christmas morning the family drove out to the Lines where the track began. A five-piece German band played. Banners flew. Soldiers hauled a small brass fieldpiece up near the engine. Several hundred spectators were already lining both sides of the track.

The
Best Friend
itself was a railed platform on four large iron wheels painted bright red and tied together by connecting rods. The bottle-shaped boiler sat upright on the platform, steam curling from its neck. Coupled behind the engine was a small flatcar holding firewood, then seven larger cars, open, with wooden benches and canopies, all in green. Cassandra remarked that the color scheme certainly fit the holiday.

In the crowd Alex recognized Judge and Mrs. Porcher, the Petigrus with their children, the Crittenden Larks. Folsey Lark set off firecrackers to frighten and annoy the onlookers. The congressman and his wife paid no attention.

Simms Bell and his family greeted Edgar's family politely but without warmth. Ouida looked pretty in a new frock with a muff; flushed and excited too. Dr. Xeno Hayward was in attendance. Alex wondered cynically whether Ouida's mother anticipated an attack of the vapors this bright Saturday.

She saw Gibbes ogling her. At thirteen her cousin was already tall, and handsomer than his pop-eyed father. She promptly turned her back.

She fidgeted through boring speeches by the city intendant, the governor's representative, Congressman Lark, an official of the West Point Foundry of New York, and, lastly, Mr. Tupper. He announced bombastically that during tests, the
Best Friend
had achieved speeds above twenty miles an hour. “More than twice the speed required by our contract!” Cheering followed, and the loud bang of the fieldpiece fired by the soldiers.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce the engineer for this historic journey, Mr. Nicholas Darrell.” A bearded gentleman stepped forward to bow. “Mr. Darrell, will you and fireman Chisolm kindly take your places?” The white engineer and the black stoker climbed the
wheels to the engine platform. “Will the invited guests please board for the first trip by the first steam locomotive completely manufactured in America for regular passenger and freight service?”

Ham accidentally trampled on Alex's foot in his haste to get a seat on the outside. She stuck her tongue out and squeezed between her father and mother. Two strangers boarded the car, then Judge Porcher and his wife. The judge slipped a metal flask inside his coat.

“Let the journey begin,” Tupper cried from the front carriage. The fieldpiece banged again. The
Best Friend
started with a terrific jerk that nearly threw Tupper off. Ladies shrieked and fanned themselves.

Mr. Darrell manipulated mysterious levers on the platform. Chisolm threw wood into the firebox at the base of the boiler. Alex felt rushing air. Cassandra covered her ears and made a face. The locomotive gathered speed, leaving the trackside crowds behind.

The ride was rough, but the sensation of flying through the pines and past the shanties and over the salt creeks was quite incredible. Green woods and gray marshes sped by like a canvas museum panorama cranked at top speed. Not every passenger enjoyed it as much as Alex; a stout woman opened her reticule and threw up in it.

Perhaps encouraged by the contents of his flask, Judge Porcher leapt to his feet. “Traveling at the speed of wind, we leave the world behind. Time and space are annihilated.” Amaryllis Porcher tugged his coat, urging him to sit lest he be thrown into a creek or ditch. Smoke and sparks flew from the top of the boiler. One burned a tiny hole in the judge's sleeve; he was oblivious. “Our magnificent steed eats fire and breathes steam. What an age of marvels. What a glorious day for the nation and the great and sovereign state of South Carolina.”

Another lurch of the car nearly disposed of him. Mrs. Porcher pulled him down by his coattails. He sat mumbling superlatives no one could hear because of the noise.

They approached a level crossing where a farmer in a buggy awaited the
Best Friend
. The smoking, snorting en
gine set the horse to pawing the air. The horse broke out of its traces and ran away down the road, leaving the farmer shaking his fists.

The journey ended too soon for Alex. Engineer Darrell brought the
Best Friend
to a stop near a junction of the roads to Dorchester and Columbia. President Tupper announced a rest stop. “At the conclusion Mr. Darrell will employ reverse gear to return us to our starting point. Please stroll and make yourselves comfortable until invited to reboard.”

Some of the more bilious passengers stepped down at once. Alex felt fine, invigorated and stimulated by the remarkable experience. Ham ran off somewhere. Cassandra sat on a stump, chatting with the Petigrus. Edgar visited with some of the shareholders, leaving Alex to wander.

She walked to a grove where the air was fragrant with the scent of pines, the ground a soft mat of dried needles and leaves. It was cool, typical winter weather for Carolina. A noise behind her made her turn.

“Gibbes.”

He leaned against a pine, his arms folded. Though two years younger, he was already nearly as tall as Alex.

“Hello, sweet girl.”

The familiarity offended her. “Gibbes, are you following me?”

“Can't deny that. Always try to get next to ladies I fancy.”

“Oh, are there many of those?”

“More'n you might think.”

Something in his eyes made her wary. She'd ventured deeper into the grove than she realized. Voices of the passengers were a distant buzz, off beyond the shafts of winter light falling through the trees.

“Excuse me,” she said, moving to one side to go around him. He sidestepped. She moved again; again he blocked her.

“What are you trying to do, Gibbes?”

“Be friendly. Every time I come close, you show your heels. That's no way to treat blood kin.”

“Will you never learn? I don't care to visit with you. Now, let me by.” She started forward. He seized her wrist, looked her up and down as though inspecting a prize animal. Then he released her.

“You're a piece of work, you are. Do you treat all the boys this bad? That colored boy you hang with?”

Alex's stomach flip-flopped. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“Come on. Mr. Lacy Olcott, friend of ours, he saw you and that carpenter's boy at White Point last year. Plenty of people heard about it later. Took your family's reputation down a few pegs, I don't mind telling you.” He stuck his head forward like a turtle coming from its shell. “Give me a kiss. Why not? You probably kiss Henry Strong's nigger lips.”

“Gibbes, if you don't stop this, in just about one more second I'm going to kick you from here to breakfast.”

It made him laugh. “One kiss.”

“Stop it. You're not old enough to fool with girls. You don't know a thing about them.”

“I guess I do too. I've been with one.”

“What?”

“I've been with one of our house wenches at the Hall. More'n once.”

“That's revolting.”

“Don't be so sure. You might like it.” He grabbed her hand and pulled it against his trousers. “Does that feel like a boy?”

Alex slapped him with all the power of her right arm. He touched his cheek where the print of her fingers showed. “You dirty snotty bitch.”

He grabbed for her with both hands. She darted aside, leaned down, scooped up dirt and pine needles, and threw them. He rubbed his eyes, cursing her with the vilest language she'd ever heard. She slapped him a second time.

“Gibbes Bell, shut up. If you ever, ever, lay hands on me again, I'll tell everybody how you made me touch you, and exactly where. I'll say it so often and so loud no one will doubt me. Then we'll see if
your
reputation doesn't slip a few pegs.”

Gibbes slid his coat sleeve across his mouth, staining the fabric with a little streak of blood. Heaven above—he was still smiling.

“Reckon you would do that. You suppose that's why I like you—because you won't have me? I'll get my way one of these days, don't think I won't.”

The
Best Friend
's bell rang; a man called for passengers to reboard. Alex ran past Gibbes, skirts held high.

The reverse journey was an ordeal. She kept her head down. If she looked up, there he was, smirking at her from his carriage.
I'll get my way one of these days.

Just how long would he torment her? She couldn't imagine what went on inside his head, but she knew she had reason to fear him.