Love and War

33

All night long, rumors of disaster swept the city. Elkanah Bent, like thousands of others, was unable to sleep. He lingered in bars or in the streets where quiet crowds awaited word. He prayed there would be news of a victory. Nothing else would save him.

Around three, he and Elmsdale, the New Hampshire colonel, gave up the vigil and returned to the boardinghouse. Bent dozed rather than slept and heard the rain start sometime before daybreak. Then he heard men in the streets. He dressed quickly, went out to the boardinghouse porch, and in a vacant lot in the next block saw eight or ten soldiers resting in the weeds. Three others, visibly filthy, dismantled a board fence to make a fire.

Yawning, Elmsdale joined him with a supply of cigars. With a nod at the vacant lot, he said, "Looks bad, doesn't it?" Bent felt a silent hysteria rising.

The two colonels hurried toward Pennsylvania Avenue. An officer's horse walked by; the man in the saddle was asleep. At another boardinghouse, Zouaves begged for food. A civilian in a white suit staggered through the drizzle with several canteens and a musket. Battlefield souvenirs? Bent tried to control his trembling.

On the avenue, they saw the ambulances, the wandering men with defeated expressions. Dozens more lay sleeping in President's Park. Bent saw bloodied faces, arms, and legs. He and Elmsdale separated for a short time. Then Elmsdale rejoined him.

"It's what we feared. A rout. I knew it last night. If McDowell had won, the President would have sent word from the telegraph room. Well —" he lit a cigar under his hat brim, out of the drizzle — "it's a taste of what's in store for us in the West."

Never religious, Bent had implored God yesterday for a Union victory. He and Elmsdale already had train tickets to Kentucky. Now he would have to use his. The war might last for months. He might perish in Kentucky, his trove of genius untapped, wasted —

He wanted to escape that fate but didn't know how. He didn't dare appeal to Dills again; the lawyer might make good on his threat. Short of desertion, which would definitely bring his dreams of military glory to an end, he saw no alternative but to use the ticket.

The child inside him screamed in futile protest. Elmsdale took note of his companion's queer, strained expression and, muttering some excuse, once more strode away in the rain.

The day after Manassas, Charles and his troop encamped with the legion not far from Confederate headquarters at the Lewis house, which was named Portici. This was quite near the center of the field of battle and less than a mile from Bull Run, whose pink-tinted brown water still held dead bodies from both sides.

As the light faded, Charles set about rubbing and currying Sport. He was elated by the victory but angry with the circumstances that had denied him a part in it. On Friday, following his return from Fairfax County, the legion had been ordered to come up from Ashland and reinforce Beauregard. But the Richmond, Fredericksburg, & Potomac rail line had only enough cars for Hampton and his six hundred foot. There were none for his four troops of horse or his flying artillery battery.

After numerous delays, Hampton reached Manassas on the morning of the battle; his cavalry was still laboring across a hundred and thirty miles of winding road, fording the South Anna, North Anna, Mattapony, Rappahannock, Aquia, Occoquan, and many lesser streams. Despite maddening slowdowns caused by two heavy rainstorms, Charles had brimmed with unexpected confidence on that long ride. He believed his men, once in action, would be all right; in spite of their resistance to discipline, they were riding well as a unit. Most could sit the dragoon seat respectably, if not as perfectly as the already fabled Turner Ashby.

Charles never had a chance to verify his new feeling; the troopers arrived after the day was won. They learned the colonel had distinguished himself, sustaining a light head wound while leading his infantry against crumbling federal regiments. That did little to soothe some of Charles's young gentlemen, who complained of missing not only the scrap but also the chance to pick through the weapons and accoutrements dropped by the fleeing Yankees. Charles sympathized with his men and mentally prepared for the next fight. It was already clear that this one wouldn't end matters.

President Davis had ridden the cars from Richmond personally to congratulate the various commanders, including Hampton, whom Davis and Old Bory called on in Hampton's tent. By late Monday, however, Charles and many others were hearing of complaints from certain members of the government; Beauregard had failed to press his advantage, drive on to Washington and capture it.

Charles kept his counsel. Lard-assed bureaucrats who sat at desks and carped had no comprehension of warfare or the limits it imposed on men and animals. They had no grasp of how long you could drive a soldier or a horse to fight fiercely and expend maximum energy. It was not a long time, relatively speaking. Battle was hard work, and even the greatest courage, the hardest will, the strongest heart must give in to overwhelming exhaustion.

Complaints aside, Manassas had been a triumph, the proof of a long-held belief that gentlemen could always whip rabble. Charles shared some of that euphoria in the pleasant hours following the battle and tried not to take undue notice of certain stenches drifting on the summer wind or the ambulance processions passing in silhouette against the red sundown.

There had been losses less impersonal than those represented by the passing vehicles. The legion's second-in-command, Lieutenant Colonel Johnson, of Charleston, had been killed by the first volley he and his men faced. Barnard Bee, one of Cousin Orry's friends from the Academy, had been mortally hit just after rallying men to the colors of that reportedly mad professor from the Virginia Military Institute, Fool Tom Jackson. Bee had praised Jackson for standing like a stone wall near the Henry house, and it appeared that "Fool Tom" had now been replaced by a more complimentary nickname.

All the members of Hampton's family who were serving had gotten through unscathed: his older son, young Wade, on the staff of Joe Johnston, whose valley army had come in on the cars of the Manassas Gap line; and Wade's younger brother, Preston, a smart-looking twenty-year-old famous for wearing yellow gloves.

Preston was one of his father's aides. Hampton's brother Frank, a cavalryman, had also escaped injury.

While Charles was using a pick to remove dirt and bits of dead tissue from Sport's hooves, Calbraith Butler, another troop commander, drifted up. Butler was a handsome, polished fellow, exactly Charles's age. He was married to the daughter of Governor Pickens and had given up a lucrative law practice to raise the Edgefield Hussars, one of the units Hampton had absorbed into the legion. Though Butler had no military experience, Charles suspected he would be fine in a fight; he liked Butler.

"Ought to have a nigra do that for you," Butler advised.

"If I were as rich as you lawyers, I might." Butler laughed. "How's the colonel?"

"In good spirits, considering the loss of Johnson and the casualties we took."

"How high?"

"Not certain. I heard twenty percent."

"Twenty," Charles repeated, with a slight nod to show satisfaction. Best to think of the dead and injured as percentages, not people; it helped you sleep nights.

Butler crouched down. "I hear the Yankees not only ran from our Black Horse, but they ran from the mere thought of them. They ran from bays, grays, roans — any color you care to name. Called 'em all the Black Horse. Sure sorry we missed that. One nice development — whether we fought or not, we're to taste the fruits of victory in a week or so. Those of us who can manage to get back to Richmond, anyway."

He went on to explain that grateful citizens had already announced a gala ball to which favored officers from Manassas would be invited. "And you know, Charlie, cavalry officers are the most favored of all. We needn't tell the ladies we were miles from the battle. That is, you needn't. Out of respect for my wife, I don't suppose I'll attend."

"Why not? Beauty Stuart's married, and I bet he'll be there."

"Damn Virginians. Have to be in the forefront of everything." During the battle, Stuart had led a much-discussed charge along the Sudley Road, further enhancing his reputation for bravery — or recklessness, depending on who told the story.

"A ball. That does have a certain tempting ring." Charles tried to keep his gaze away from more ambulances moving in slow file along the ridge, past the blazing disk of the sun.

"Charming female guests from miles around are to be invited. The sponsors don't want our brave boys to suffer a shortage of dance partners."

Thoughtfully, Charles said, "I just might go if I can scrounge an invitation."

"Well! There's a sign of life in the weary trooper. Good for you." Butler strolled off, and Sport nuzzled Charles's arm as he resumed his work. He found himself whistling, having realized that with a touch of luck he might find Augusta Barclay at the ball.

34

They had arrived in the capital at seven in the morning, soaked and on the verge of sickness. George, Constance, and the children went straight to Willard's; Stanley, Isabel, and the twins to their mansion, with not so much as a syllable of good-bye exchanged.

George washed, shaved — cutting himself twice — drank two fingers of whiskey, and reported to the Winder Building in a daze. So widespread was despair over the defeat that nothing got done all morning; Ripley shut the office down at half past eleven. George heard that the President was in another of his depressive states. Small wonder, he thought as he staggered through crowds of army stragglers on his way to the hotel.

He fell into a stuporous sleep, from which he was gently shaken around nine that night. Constance felt he should take some nourishment. In Willard's dining room, which was packed yet unnaturally quiet, George questioned those at nearby tables and winced at the answers. He asked more questions next day. The scope and consequences of the tragedy at Bull Run became, clearer.

Everyone spoke of the disgraceful behavior of the volunteers and their officers, and of the ferocity of the enemy troops, especially something called the Black Horse Cavalry. George got the impression the rebs had no other kind, which couldn't be true. Yet even Ripley spoke as if it were.

Casualty figures were vague as yet, though some losses were certain; Simon Cameron's brother had died leading a Highlander regiment, the Seventy-ninth New York. Scott and McDowell were the identified culprits. While George snored away most of Monday, McDowell had been relieved and George's old classmate Mc-Clellan was summoned from western Virginia to command the army and, presumably, organize and train it into something more nearly worthy of the name.

On Tuesday, office work resumed. George received orders for a flying trip to acquaint himself with activities of the Cold Spring Foundry across the river from West Point. His father had visited the foundry during George's cadet years. Even back then, it had been turning out some of the finest ironwork in America. The foundry was now manufacturing great iron-banded artillery pieces designed by Robert Parker Parrott. The Ordnance Department's on-site officer was a Captain Stephen Benet.

Tuesday night, after George packed, the high-command change took up most of the conversation before he and Constance fell asleep.

"Lincoln and the cabinet and the Congress all pushed McDowell. They forced him to send poorly trained amateurs into battle. The volunteers failed to behave like regulars, and McDowell's been punished for it — by Lincoln and the cabinet and the Congress."

"Ah," she murmured. "The first girl on the President's card proved clumsy, so he's changing partners."

"Changing partners. That says it very well." George hoisted his nightshirt to scratch an itch on his thigh. "I wonder how many times he'll do it before the ball is over?"

George was thankful to exchange Washington's air of hopelessness for the beauty of the Hudson River valley, all the more vivid because of the glorious sunshiny weather he found there. Old Parrott, class of '24, ran the plant, and he insisted on showing the visitor every part of it personally. Bathing in the foundry's heat and light was a kind of joyous homecoming. George was fascinated by the precision with which the workers bored out the cannon and heated, coiled, and hammered four-inch-square bars of iron to form the bands that were the maker's mark on Parrott guns.

Parrott seemed to appreciate the presence in the Ordnance Department of someone who understood his problems as manufacturer and manager. George liked the older man, but the real find, personally as well as professionally, was Captain Stephen V. Benet, whom George remembered from the class of '49.

A Florida native, so dark as to be mistaken for a Spaniard, Benet divided his time between the foundry and West Point, where he taught ordnance theory and gunnery. Together, the two men crossed the river to roam their old haunts one afternoon. They discussed everything from their own classes to the mounting attacks on the institution.

Over supper at the post hotel, Benet said: "I admire the patriotism that inspired you to accept a commission. As for being in Ripley's department — that calls for condolences."

"That place is an infernal mess," George agreed. "Lunatic inventors in every cranny, piles of paper a year old, no standardization. I'm trying to compile a master list of all the types of artillery ammunition we're using. It's a struggle."

Benet laughed. "I should imagine. There are at least five hundred."

"We may defeat ourselves and save the rebs the job."

"Working for Ripley would discourage anyone. He looks for reasons to reject new ideas. He seeks their flaws. I'd rather look for strengths. Reasons to say yes." Benet paused, twirling his glass of port. He gave his visitor a level look and decided to trust him. "Perhaps that's why the President now sends prototypes directly here for evaluation." He sipped. "Did you know about that — bypassing Ripley?"

"No, but it doesn't surprise me. Taking the other side, I must tell you Lincoln's very unpopular in the War Department because of his constant interference."

"Understandable, but —" another searching look — "how will we whip the Ripleys without it?"

George carried the pessimistic question back to the city unanswered.

July sweltered away, and George hunched at his desk late into the evenings. He seldom saw Stanley, but he saw Lincoln often. The storklike, vaguely comical Chief Executive was always dashing from one government office to another with bundles of plans and papers and memoranda and a spare joke or two, some very bawdy. Gossip said the dumpy little woman to whom he was married refused to hear the stories repeated in her presence.

Occasionally Lincoln turned up at the Winder Building in the late afternoon, wanting one of the staff to join him in target practice over at Treasury Park. Once George was tempted to volunteer, but he held back, not because he was in awe of the Chief Executive — Lincoln was usually gregarious and eminently approachable — but because he feared he would let his frustrations spill out. As long as he worked for Ripley, he owed him silence as a measure of loyalty.

Although procedure outweighed performance in the departmental scheme of things, Ripley's record was not all bad. George discovered the old man had pleaded for purchase of a hundred thousand European shoulder weapons more than three months ago to supplement the antiquated stores in federal warehouses. Cameron had insisted the army use only American-made weapons, which suggested to cynical George that some of the secretary's cronies must have firearms contracts. The Manassas debacle darkened the cloud over Cameron, and his purchasing decision was now being denounced as a blunder. The war wouldn't end with the summer, and there weren't enough guns to train and arm recruits who had already reported to camps of instruction from the East Coast to the Mississippi.

George was pulled from drafting a mortar contract and assigned to rewrite and polish a new Ripley proposal for purchase of a hundred thousand foreign-made weapons. The proposal went to the War Department bearing half a dozen signatures, the most prominent after Ripley's being George's. After three days of silence, he walked over personally to check on the fate of the proposal.

"I found it sitting on some desk," he reported when he returned. "Marked rejected."

Without stopping his eternal movement of papers, Maynadier snapped, "On what grounds?"

"The secretary wants the proposal resubmitted with the quantity cut in half."

Ripley overheard. "What? Only fifty thousand pieces?" He exploded into invective that made his typical tantrums pale; work was impossible for nearly an hour.

That night, George told Constance, "Cameron authorized the rejection, but Stanley signed it. I'm sure he took great pleasure in it."

"George, you mustn't sink into feelings of persecution."

"What I'm sinking into is regret that I took the damn job. I was a fool to ignore the warning signs."

She was sympathetic and tried to tease him out of his mood. "See here, you're not the only one suffering. Look at my waist. If I don't stop gaining, I'll soon be bigger than one of Professor Lowe's balloons. You must help me, George. You must remind me to hold back at mealtimes." The problem wasn't fictitious, but it was certainly a less significant worry than his. He replied with a mumbled promise and a vague look that made her fret about him all the more.

Ripley informed George and certain others that they would all receive brevets in August, Ripley himself rising to brigadier. George would be wearing three loops of black silk braid on his coat-cloak and the gold star of a major. The department's crimes of omission and commission, unfolding daily like the petals of a rose, left him too disheartened to care.

Ripley let contracts to virtually any middleman who said he could obtain "foreign arms." The mere claim was enough to induce faith and an outpouring of funds. "You should see the frauds who pass themselves off as arms merchants," George exclaimed to Constance during another late-evening complaint session; they were becoming chronic. "Stable owners, apothecaries, relatives of congressmen — they all promise on the Bible to deliver European arms overnight. Ripley doesn't even question them about sources."

"Do you have similar problems with artillery?"

"I do not. I interview at least one would-be contractor a day, and I weed out the charlatans with a few questions. Ripley's in such a panic, he never bothers."

Duties frequently took George to the Washington Arsenal on Greenleaf's Point, a jut of mud flats at the confluence of the Potomac and the Anacostia south of the center of town. There, neatly ranked beneath the trees around the old buildings, were artillery pieces of all sorts and sizes. Prowling the arsenal storage rooms in search of ammunition, George discovered a curiously designed gun with a crank on the side and a hopper on top. He asked Colonel Ramsay, the arsenal commandant, about it.

"Three inventors brought it here early this year. The official name on our records is .58-caliber Union Repeating Gun. The President christened it the coffee mill. It fires rapidly — the ammunition's loaded into that hopper — and after the initial tests, Mr. Lincoln wanted to adopt it. I'm told he sent memoranda on the subject to your commanding officer," Ramsay finished pointedly.

"With what result?"

"There was no result."

"Any more tests?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Why not?" George already suspected the answer, which Ramsay provided in a vicious imitation of the new brigadier general:

"Han't got time!"

Discussing the gun, George said to Constance, "So a promising weapon molders while we waste our time with lunatic schemes and their equally deranged proponents." He said this because he was often diverted from important tasks and forced to interview inventors.

One August afternoon when he was already late for a mortar test at the arsenal, Maynadier insisted he speak with the cousin of some congressman from Iowa.

The man wanted to sell a protective vest. Unfortunately, his sample had been delayed in shipment. "But it should be here tomorrow. I know you'll be impressed, General."

"Major."

"Yes, your excellency. Major."

"Tell me about your vest," George snarled.

"It's crafted of the finest blued steel and certified to stop any projectile fired by an enemy's shoulder or hand weapon."

With a feline smile, George smoothed his mustache. "Oh, you're a steelmaker. Delighted to hear it. That's my trade also. Tell me about your facility in Iowa."

"Well, Gen — Major — actually — the prototype was crafted by a supplier in Dubuque. I am —" the man swallowed — "a hatter by profession."

Faint with fury, George repeated, "A hatter. I see."

"But the prototype was made to my specifications, which I assure you are metallurgicaly precise. The vest will do everything I claim. One test will prove it."

George experienced déjà vu. Vendors of body armor visited the department in regiments these days. "Would you be willing to stay in Washington until a test can be arranged?"

The encouraged hatter beamed. "I might, if the omens for a contract were favorable."

"And, of course, since you're confident of the performance of your prototype, I presume you're willing to wear it personally during the test, allowing a sharpshooter to fire several rounds at you, so we may verify —"

The hatter, with hat and diagrams, was gone.

"What a terrible thing to do, George," Constance said that night. But she giggled.

"Nonsense. I have learned one of the primary lessons of Washington. One of the surest remedies for the madness of the place is laughter."

Laughter was no antidote for the next bad news to reach Ripley's office. Cameron's decision against foreign arms had given Confederate purchasing agents some ninety days in which to snatch up all the best weapons for sale in Britain and on the Continent. When a few samples of what remained arrived at the Winder Building, gloom was instantaneous.

In the steamy dusk, George took one sample down to the arsenal. The weapon was a .54-caliber percussion rifle carried by Austrian jaeger battalions. Designed on the Lorenz pattern of 1854, it was ugly, cumbersome, and had a brutal recoil. After he fired three rounds at the targets normally used for testing artillery — five thick pilings planted ten feet apart in the middle of the Potomac — his shoulder felt as if a mule had kicked it.

He heard a carriage. He was at the end of one of the arsenal piers, so he walked back to see who was arriving. The carriage remained indistinct for some while, moving among trees near the U.S. Penitentiary, which shared the mud flats with the arsenal.

Beneath the hazy pink sky, the carriage finally approached the pierhead. George knew the driver, one of Lincoln's secretaries, William Stoddard. His office stockpiled sample weapons that inventors sent directly to the President in the hope of by-passing Ripley.

Carrying some sort of shoulder gun, the President stepped out of the carriage while Stoddard tied the team to a cleat. In the dusky light Lincoln's pallor looked worse than usual, but he seemed in good humor. He plumped his stovepipe on the ground and nodded to George, who saluted.

"Good evening, Mr. President."

"Evening, Major — I apologize, but I don't know your name."

"I do," Stoddard said. "Major George Hazard. His brother Stanley works for Mr. Cameron." Lincoln blinked and appeared to stiffen slightly, suggesting that George's relationship to one, possibly both, men did nothing for his status.

Still, Lincoln remained cordial, explaining, "It's my habit to go shooting in Treasury Park, although the night police hate the racket. Couldn't go there this evening because there's a baseball game." He peered at the piece George had been firing. "What have we here?"

"One of the jaeger rifles we may purchase from the Austrian government, sir."

"Satisfactory?"

"I'm no small-arms expert, but I would say barely. I'm afraid it's about the best we can get, though."

"Yes, Mr. Cameron was a mite slow to enter the quadrille, wasn't he? We could substitute this type of weapon" — Lincoln's big-knuckled hand lifted the gun he had brought as if it were light as down — "but your chief doesn't care for breechloaders, never mind that a scared recruit in the thick of action can have a peck of trouble with a muzzleloader. Maybe he forgets and slips the bullet down in before the powder. Maybe he forgets to pull the rammer, and there she goes, fired off like a spear —"

He puckered his lips and whooshed as he swept his free hand up and out to suggest an arc over the pink-lit river. George studied the breechloader. He could just discern the maker's name on the right lock plate: C. Sharps.

"I also realize that new and even recent are words unwelcome in the brigadier's vocabulary," Lincoln continued with a smile. "But I'm reliably informed that breech-loading pieces were known and demonstrated in the time of King Henry the Eighth, so we don't exactly have a brand-new thingamajig, do we now? I favor single-shot breechloaders, and, by Ned, the army's going to have some."

Stoddard asked George, "Are there any on order in Europe?"

"I don't believe —"

"There are none," Lincoln interrupted, sounding more melancholy than irked. Then the thunder blow: "That is why I recently sent my own buying agent over there with two millions of dollars and free rein. If I can't get satisfaction from Cameron and Company, I shall have to get it another way, I guess."

Awkward silence. Stoddard cleared his throat. "Sir, it will be dark soon."

"Dark. Yes. The hour for dreams — best I get on with shooting."

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. President —" George feared that he sounded strange; the bad news had dried his mouth.

"Certainly, Major Hazard. Happy to see you down here. I admire men who like to learn all they can. Try to do that myself."

Lugging the Austrian rifle, George retreated into the gathering night. He mounted his horse and rode up past the brightly lit penitentiary to the sounds of firing from the pier. He felt as if someone had hit him over the head. Cameron and Company was in worse trouble than he had imagined. And he worked for Cameron and Company.

It had pleased Stanley to reject the proposal prepared by his brother. Stanley had a few clear memories of the long, horrible walk back from Manassas — he had none of crying at the roadside; it was Isabel who frequently reminded him of it — but those that remained included one of George pushing and bullying him as if he were some plantation nigger. If he could slight George or make his job more difficult, he now had one more reason for doing so.

Stanley was worried about his position as Cameron's creature. Saloon gossip said the boss's star was already falling. Yet nothing in the department appeared to change. The secretary had spent several days away from his desk, mourning his brother, but after that, it was business — and confusion — as usual.

Important congressmen had begun to inquire orally, by letter, and through press pronouncements about the purchasing methods of the War Department. Lincoln's dispatch of his own man to Europe on a gun-buying trip showed no great faith in them, to say the least. Complaints about shortages of clothing, small arms, and equipment continued to pour in from the camps of instruction. It was stated with increasing openness that Cameron was guilty of mismanagement and that the army, which little McClellan would attempt to whip into fighting trim, had not half of what it needed.

Except for bootees, Stanley could note with self-congratulation. Pennyford was producing in quantity, on schedule. Lashbrook's profit figures, projected out to year-end, staggered Stanley and delighted Isabel, who claimed to have expected the bonanza.

Regrettably, Stanley's personal success couldn't help him weather the departmental crisis. The written and oral demands for information now contained barbs in them. Scandalous shortages. Reported irregularities. If an impropriety was actually alleged, Cameron didn't deny it. He didn't even acknowledge it. One day Stanley overheard two clerks discussing this technique.

"Another sharp letter came in this morning. Treasury this time. Got to admire the way the boss handles them. He stands silent as a stone wall — same as that crazy Jackson at Bull Run."

"I thought the battle was fought at Manassas," said the second clerk.

"According to the rebs. According to us, it's Bull Run."

The other groaned. "If they start naming battles for places and we start naming them for streams, how the devil will schoolboys figure it out fifty years from now?"

"Who cares? I'm worried about today. Even the boss can't put up a stone wall forever. My advice is, bank your salary and —" He noticed Stanley lingering over a bound volume of contracts. He nudged his companion and both moved away.

The clerks epitomized the desperation beginning to infect the department. Cameron's precarious position was no longer a secret known only to a few. He was in trouble and, by extension, so were his cronies. When Stanley returned to his desk, the thought made it impossible for him to concentrate.

He needed to put distance between himself and his old mentor. How? No answer came to mind. He must discuss the problem with Isabel. He could count on her to know what to do.

That evening, however, she wasn't in a mood to discuss it. He found her seething over a newspaper.

"What's upset you, my dear?"

"Our sweet conniving sister-in-law. She's ingratiating herself with the very people we should be cultivating."

"Stevens and that lot?" Isabel responded with a fierce nod. "What's Constance done?"

"Started her abolition work again. She and Kate Chase are to be hostesses at a reception for Martin Delany." The name meant nothing — further cause for wifely fury. "Oh, don't be so thick, Stanley. Delany's the nigger doctor who wrote the novel everyone twittered over a couple of years ago. Blake; that was the title. He runs around in African robes, giving lectures."

Stanley remembered then. Before the war, Delany had promoted the idea of a new African state to which American blacks could, and in his opinion should, emigrate. Delany's scheme called for the blacks to raise cotton in Africa and bankrupt the South through competitive free enterprise.

Stanley picked up the paper, found the announcement of the reception, and read the partial list of guests. His moist dark eyes reflected the bright gas mantles as he said carefully, "I know you can't abide the colored and those who champion them. But you're right, we need to speed up our own — cultivation, as you call it, of the important pro-abolition people attending that party. Simon is about to go down. If we aren't careful, he'll take us with him. He'll ruin our reputations and dam up the river of money that's flowing into Lashbrook's." There was a hint of uncharacteristic strength in his voice as he finished. "We must do something and do it soon."

35

The hot haze of August settled on the Alexandria line. Encamped north of Centreville, the legion awaited replacements and the Enfields the colonel had paid for with personal funds. The rifles were to come from Britain on a blockade runner.

The legion reorganized to compensate for its losses at Manassas. Calbraith Butler, promoted to major, took command of the four troops of cavalry. Charles reacted to the change with initial resentment, which he was sensible enough to keep to himself. When he thought about it, the choice wasn't so surprising. Butler was a gentleman volunteer, without the taint of professionalism Charles carried. Being married to the governor's daughter didn't hurt, either.

Also, Charles knew his own cause hadn't been helped by his insistence on discipline and his occasional anger with offenders. He had a less violent temper than many an Academy graduate — a Yankee hothead named Phil Sheridan came to mind — but he still yelled in the approved West Point style.

The hell with it. He had enlisted to win a war, not promotions. Butler was a fine horseman and by instinct a good officer; he led men the right way — by example. Charles congratulated his new superior with unfeigned sincerity.

"Decent of you, Charles," said the new major. "In terms of experience, you're more deserving than I." He smiled. "Tell you what. Since I have all these new responsibilities and am married to boot, you must hie yourself to Richmond and represent me at that ball. Take Pell along if you like."

Charles needed no further invitation. He spruced up his uniform and hurried completion of the most important of his current tasks. Sometimes, he thought, the duties were more a father's than a soldier's. He finished the work just in time for evening review. At the ceremony, the colonel formally received the regiment's newest battle flag, sewn by ladies at home. A palmetto wreath and the words Hampton's Legion decorated the scarlet silk.

Afterward, Charles made final preparations for travel to Richmond. He was interrupted by a trooper named Nelson Gervais, who had a long letter from a girl back home in Rock Hill. The nineteen-year-old farmer shifted his weight back and forth and rattled the letter paper as he explained.

"I've pressed my suit with Miss Sally Mills for three years, Captain. No luck. Now all of a sudden she says —" rattle went the paper — "she says my joining up and going away made her wake up to how much she cares for me. She says here that she'd entertain a marriage proposal."

"Congratulations, Gervais." Impatient, Charles missed the point of the trooper's imploring look. "I don't believe you'd be permitted a furlough anytime soon, but that shouldn't stop you from asking for her hand."

"Yes, sir, I want to do that."

"You don't need my consent."

"I need your help, sir. Miss Sally Mills writes real well, but — " his face turned red as the new flag — "I can't."

"Not at all?"

"No, sir." Long pause. "Can't read, either." Rattle. "One of my messmates, he read this for me. Where Sally said she loved me and all —"

Charles understood, gently tapped the desk. "Leave that, and as soon as I'm back from Richmond, I'll compose a letter of proposal and we'll go over it till it meets with your approval."

"Thank you, sir! I really thank you. I can't hardly thank you enough."

Private Gervais's effusions floated in the humid night for some moments after his departure. Charles smiled to himself and blew out the light in his wall tent, feeling remarkably middle-aged.

The night ride on the cars of the Orange & Alexandria proved exhausting due to unforeseen and unexplained delays en route. Charles dozed on the hard seat, doing his best to ignore Ambrose's attempts at conversation. His friend was annoyed that they were segregated from Hampton and other senior officers in the car ahead.

Charles was worn out and dirty when they arrived in Richmond late next morning. Quarters had been arranged with a Mississippi unit, so he had a chance to jump into a zinc tub, then find a pallet and try to catch an hour's sleep. Excitement made it impossible.

The Spotswood ballroom glittered with braid and jewels and lights that shone on yards of Confederate bunting. Hundreds packed the room and the adjoining parlors and corridors. Soon after Charles entered, he glimpsed his cousin Ashton on the far side of the dance floor. She and her pale worm of a husband were hovering near President Davis. Charles would avoid coming anywhere near them.

Young women, many quite beautiful and all vivacious and handsomely gowned, laughed and danced with the officers, who outnumbered them three to one. Charles wasn't anxious for companionship unless he found the right person. He didn't see her anywhere. His hopes had been far-fetched, he supposed. Fredericksburg was miles away.

But there were unexpected diversions. A burly first lieutenant with the beginnings of a great beard left a group around Joe Johnston and hurled himself over to give Charles a bear hug.

"Bison! I suspected you might be here."

"Fitz, you look grand. I heard you were on General Johnston's staff."

Fitzhugh Lee, nephew of Robert E., had been a close friend at West Point and in Texas. "Not so grand as you, Captain." He loaded the last word with mock deference. Charles laughed.

"Don't hand me that. I know who's superior here. You're regular army. We're still just state troops."

"Not for long, I'm sure. Oh-oh — there's another gorgeous phiz you should recognize. And precisely where you'd expect it, too — in the middle of a bevy of admiring females."

Charles looked, and his heart leaped at the sight of an old friend who was in theory his colonel's rival. Jeb Stuart's russet beard was full and resplendent. Gauntlets were artfully draped over his sash. A yellow rose adorned his buttonhole. His blue eyes flashed as he teased and flattered the ladies pressing close to him.

The commander of the First Virginia Cavalry had been a first classman when Charles entered the Academy. Stuart had given the callow plebe a haircut — or half of one — that Charles would never forget. Together, he and Fitz worked their way toward Stuart. He spied them and excused himself from the disappointed ladies just as Charles saw a major from the First Virginia request a dance from a full-bosomed blonde wearing pale blue silk. It was Augusta.

Away from the crowd, Stuart's boots were visible; there were the gold spurs everyone talked about. "Bison Main! Now the party's perfect!"

Charles's greeting was restrained and correct. "Colonel."

"Come, come — you don't say hello to your old barber that way."

"Very well, Beauty. It's grand to run into you. You and General Beauregard are the heroes of the hour."

"I do hear those Yankees think we all ride black stallions that squirt fire and brimstone from their nostrils. Good! We'll whip 'em that much sooner if they stay scared. Come along and have a whiskey."

The three walked to the refreshment bar, where black men deferentially filled the orders. Stuart couldn't help crowing a little.

"Hear you boys missed the muss the other day. Luck of the game. How do you find your commander?" He indicated Hampton, some distance away. The colonel was engaged in conversation with one man in civilian clothes; there were no admirers.

"None better."

"Never make a cavalryman. Too old."

"He's a superb horseman, Beauty. Strong as any of us."

Stuart's flashing smile relieved the brief tension, Whiskey helped, too. The three were soon chatting about Fitz's uncle, who had been superintendent at West Point for a time; Lee was scrapping with the Federals in the western reaches of the state.

Charles's glance kept returning to Augusta. She was dancing a gallopade with the same major, who in Charles's jealous imagination had become an exemplar of boring pomposity.

Fitz startled him by saying: "Handsome little morsel."

"Know her?"

"Certainly. She's a rich woman — modestly rich, anyway, thanks to her late husband. Her mother's people, the Duncans, are one of the oldest families on the Rappahannock. One of the finest, too."

"Except for her damned traitorous uncle," Stuart said. "He sold out to the Africanizers, just like my father-in-law."

"But you named your son in honor of old Cooke," Fitz said.

"Flora's changed the boy's name at my insistence. He's no longer Philip; he's James — now and forever more." There was ice in Stuart's smile, and the light of the true believer in his eyes. It bothered Charles.

Stuart had other admirers waiting. His departure, though friendly, left Charles with the feeling that rivalries of rank and state now divided them, and they both recognized it. The result was a kind of melancholy, enhanced when the orchestra started a new piece and the major once more claimed a dance from Augusta.

"If she's the one you want, go after her," Fitz whispered.

"He outranks me."

"No self-respecting Southerner would consider that an obstacle. Besides" — Fitz's voice went lower still — "I know that man. He's a fool." He thumped Charles on the shoulder. "Go on, Bison, or the night'll be over and you'll have nothing to show for it."

Wondering why he felt anxious and hesitant, Charles maneuvered his way around the edge of the floor where couples whirled and stirred the air. He caught Augusta watching him — with plea­sure and relief, unless he was imagining things. He quickly planned his strategy, waited till the music ended, then went charging to her side.

"Cousin Augusta! Major, do excuse the interruption — I had no idea I'd see my relative here tonight."

"Your relative?" the First Virginia officer repeated in a voice that seemed to echo from a barrel. He frowned at his partner. "You said nothing about relatives in the Palmetto State, Mrs. Barclay."

"Didn't I? The Duncans have a host of them. And I haven't set eyes on dear Charles for two — it must be three years now. Major Beesley — Captain Main. You will excuse us, Major?" She smiled, taking Charles's arm and turning him away from the scowling Virginian.

"Beastly, did you say?" he whispered. The whiskey was bubbling in him; he felt hot and reacted to the touch of her breast against his sleeve.

"That should be his name. Feathers for brains and feet of lead. I thought I was doomed for the rest of the night."

"Feathers and lead — that isn't Mr. Pope, is it?"

"No, but you certainly have a good memory."

"Good enough so I remember not to call you Gus."

She whacked his hand lightly with her fan. "Be careful or I'll go back to Beastly."

"I'll never allow that." He glanced over his shoulder. "He's hovering. Let's get some food."

Charles handed Augusta a cup of punch, then started to fill two small plates. Several girls crowded in beside him. With stagey gestures and exaggerated diction, one was loudly reciting a satiric piece Charles had heard in camp. The Richmond Examiner had originally printed the so-called fable of the orang-outang named Old Abe:

"The orang-outang was chosen king, and this election created a great disturbance and revolution in the Southern states, for the beasts in that part of the country had imported from Africa a large number of black monkeys and had made slaves of them. And Old Abe the orang-outang had declared that this was an indignity offered to his family —"

Augusta said, "Oh, I'm so sorry," an instant before she appeared to stumble. She dumped punch all over the speaker's beige silk skirt.

The performer and her friends squealed and fumed. Augusta didn't show her wrath till she had pulled Charles away. "Witless little fools. I swear, I love the South, but I surely don't love all Southerners. She'd never utter such remarks in my home. I'd take a horsewhip to her. My nigras are fine men."

Charles carried the plates to a small balcony overlooking the busy street. Augusta sighed. "I really don't belong at this party. The trip's too long, and most of the company intolerable." She took a small toast wedge from the plate; the caviar glistened. "Most," she said again, gazing up at him; his height made it necessary. "Why did you come, then?"

"They said they needed a good supply of women. I decided —" she paused — "it was my patriotic duty to attend. One of my freedmen made the trip with me. Not that I couldn't have driven alone — Why are you smiling?" "Because you're so damned — uh, blasted —" "That's all right, I've heard the word damn before." "So confident. You have more brass than Jeb Stuart." "And it isn't proper in a woman?" "I didn't say that, did I?" "Then why take note of it?" "Because it's — surprising."

"Is that the best you can do — surprising? How do you really feel about it, Captain?" "Don't get prickly with me. If you must know, I like it." She blushed, which stunned him. She stunned him a second time by saying, "I didn't mean to be prickly. It's a bad habit. As I think I told you when we met, I was never much of a belle, and I don't always conduct myself in the approved manner." "Nevertheless, I approve. Wholeheartedly." "Thank you, dear sir." The barrier was up again. Did he unsettle her with his attentions? His own attraction to this pretty but unconventional widow definitely unsettled him.

Yet he wouldn't have left for anything. They stood in shy silence, watching the wagons and foot traffic below. Richmond swarmed with strangers these days, and he had heard that street crime was out of control. Robberies, murders, sexual assaults — The orchestra resumed. "Will you dance with me, Augusta?"

The way he blurted it, with a slight hoarseness, alarmed her again. Well, we both have reason to be cautious. It's the wrong time and place for anything but light conversations and casual friendships.

She felt soft and exactly right in his arms. He had been so long without a woman, he consciously had to maintain distance between them or she would feel the result of his deprivation. They waltzed past a group of officers; Fitz Lee applauded him in pantomime. They waltzed past Huntoon, who stared; Charles nodded. They waltzed past the First Virginia officer, whom Charles acknowledged by calling out a greeting: "Major Beastly."

On they danced, Augusta laughing and limp against him for a moment. He felt her body through their clothing; slight plumpness made the contact more sensual.

With her eager consent, Charles kept her as a partner the rest of the evening, then walked her back to the boardinghouse where she had secured a room. Her freedman had been waiting outside the Spotswood with the buggy, but she had sent him on to sleep. Charles was glad for the extra time alone with her. His train left at three, nearly a whole hour yet.

The presentation saber bumped his leg lightly as they walked. The streets were quiet, empty of all but a few furtive figures or occasional carriages bound home from the ball. In some noisy saloons they passed, crowds of civilians and soldiers still roistered. But no one bothered them; Charles's height and obvious strength deterred that sort of thing. Augusta seemed to like sheltering on his arm.

"I must tell you the truth, Charles," she said when they reached the dark stoop of the boardinghouse. She took a step up, bringing her eyes level with his. "This evening we have talked about everything from my crops to General Lee's character, but we've missed the one subject we ought to discuss."

"What's that?"

"The real reason I traveled so far. I am a patriot, but not that much of a one, thank you." She drew a breath, as if ready to dive into water. "I hoped you might be here."

"I —" Don't entangle yourself. He ignored the inner warning. "I hoped the same about you."

"I'm forward, aren't I?"

"I'm glad. I couldn't have said it first."

"You have not struck me as a shy type, Captain."

"With men like Beastly, no. With you —"

In a far steeple, a bell chimed the quarter hour. The night was still warm, but he felt warmer. Her right hand closed on his left, tightly.

"Will you come visit me at the farm when you can?"

"Even if I forget and call you Gus?"

She looked at him; bent to him. Blond curls bounced softly against his face. "Even then." She kissed him on the cheek and ran inside.

He strode off toward the rail station, whistling. The inner voice persisted. Be careful. Cavalrymen must travel light. He knew he should heed it, but he felt tall as a house, and he didn't.

36

At Treasury, James Huntoon came out of an emergency meeting convened by the secretary to discuss the counterfeiting problem. Huntoon sank into the pool of autumn light dappling his desk and laid before him a ten-dollar note that looked authentic but was not. He had been assigned to show it to Pollard, editor of the Examiner, so the paper could warn readers about all the bogus notes in circulation — notes printed more expertly, alas, than those from Hoyer and Ludwig, the government's official engraving firm. Pollard would love the story, and Huntoon relished the thought of reporting it; he shared the editor's dislike of the President, his policies, and the administration as a whole. The paper's current target was Colonel Northrop, commissary-general of the army, rapidly becoming the most hated man in the Confederacy because of his mishandling of food procurement and distribution. Pollard's anti-Northrop editorials never failed to mention that, once again, Davis was siding with a West Point crony. The only Academy graduate the Examiner supported was Joe Johnston; that was because the general and the President were wrangling bitterly over the rank to which Johnston felt entitled.

When speaking privately, editor Pollard was even more vindictive. He called Davis "a Mississippi parvenu." Accused him of taking orders from his wife — "he is wax in her hands." Reminded listeners that Davis had vetoed the congressional decision to move the capital to Richmond — "Does that not tell you how he feels about our beloved Old Dominion?" — and had appeared "stricken with grief," according to his wife's statement, when informed he had been chosen president.

Pollard was not an isolated case. A cyclone of enmity, some of it expressed in extreme and violent language, was rising in the South. Stephens, the elderly vice president, openly referred to his superior with words such as tyrant and despot. Many were demanding Davis's removal — and the election to ratify his provisional presidency would not be held until November.

Huntoon's disenchantment with the administration was one reason for his depressed state. Ashton was another. She spent all her time trying to maneuver herself higher on the social ladder. Twice she had forced him to attend dinner parties hosted by that shifty little Jew, Benjamin. They had much in common, those two. They trod warily, pleasing all, offending none — because who could tell from which direction the cyclone would be blowing next week?

One genuinely savage quarrel had marred Huntoon's summer. Two weeks after the reception at the Spotswood, the flash gentleman with connections in Valdosta and the Bahamas had called at the residence into which Huntoon and Ashton had moved a few days earlier. The gentleman offered to sell Huntoon a share in what he termed his maritime company. On the Merseyside, at Liverpool, he said, he had located a fast steamer, Water Witch, that could be refitted at reasonable cost to run the blockade between Nassau and the Confederate coast.

"What would she carry?" Huntoon asked. "Rifles, ammunition, that sort of thing?"

"Oh, no," Mr. Lamar H. A. Powell replied. "Luxuries. There's much more money to be made from those. Risks to the vessel would be considerable, as you know. So we are looking to the short rather than the long term. My figures suggest that if the cargo is selected carefully, just two successful runs can produce a profit of five hundred percent — minimum. After that, the Yankees can sink the vessel whenever they please. If she continues her runs, the potential earnings of shareholders approach the astronomical."

Just then, Huntoon noticed his wife closely watching the visitor. Huntoon feared handsome men because he wasn't one, but he couldn't tell whether it was the aloof stranger's scheme or his good looks that titillated Ashton. Either way, he wanted nothing to do with Mr. L. H. A. Powell, whose background he had looked into after Powell had sent a note around requesting this meeting.

It was said Powell had been a mercenary soldier in Europe and, later, a filibuster in South America. Government records showed he claimed exemption from any military service by virtue of a rule excusing those who owned more than twenty slaves; Powell's declaration claimed seventy-five on his family's plantation near Valdosta. A telegraph message from Atlanta replying to one of Huntoon's stated that the "plantation" consisted of a dilapidated farm cottage and outbuildings occupied by three people named Powell: a man and woman in their seventies and a forty-year-old hulk with a brain of an infant. A third brother had run off to the West. Hardly impeccable credentials, but they justified Huntoon's response to his caller.

"I want no part of any such scheme, Mr. Powell."

"May I ask the reason?"

"I have several, but the principal one will suffice. It's unpatriotic."

"I see. You'd rather be a poor patriot than a rich one, is that it?"

"Importing perfumes and silks and sherry for Secretary Benjamin is not my idea of patriotism, sir."

"But, James, darling," his wife began.

Goaded by some ill-defined but clearly felt threat the flash gentleman represented, he cut in, "The answer is no, Ashton."

After Powell had gone, they screamed at each other long into the night.

Huntoon: "Of course I meant what I said. I'll have nothing to do with such unprincipled opportunism. As I told that fellow, I have any number of reasons."

Ashton, fists clenched, teeth, too: "Name them."

"Well — the personal risk, for one. Imagine the consequences of discovery."

"You're a coward."

He went red. "God, how I hate you sometimes." But he had turned away before he said it.

Later, Ashton again, wilder than before: "It's my money we live on, don't forget. Mine. You scarcely make as much as niggers who pick cotton. I control our funds —"

"By my sufferance."

"You think so! I can spend the money any way I wish."

"Would you care to test that in court? The law says those funds became my property the moment we married."

"Always the smug little attorney, aren't you?" She tore blankets from their bed, opened the door, and hurled the bundle into the hall. "Sleep on the settee, you bastard — if you're not too fat to fit."

She pushed him out. Eyes watering behind his spectacles, he raised a placating hand. "Ashton —" The slamming door struck his palm. He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes.

They had made up the next day — they always made up — although she denied him physical contact for a period of two weeks. After that her mood improved remarkably. She was cheerful, as if Powell and his scheme didn't exist.

But the memory of that quarrel existed and wouldn't go away; it was one more troubling cloud on a horizon that seemed to be filling with them. Huntoon sat at his desk with the forged note, his eyes vacant, his expression unhappy. The clerk he worked for had to tell him pointedly to get going to the paper.

Richmond's normal business day ended at three, with a large dinner, the main meal, served shortly thereafter. The schedules didn't apply to households of those who worked for the government, however. Ashton seldom had to worry about planning menus with her black cook — a blessing, since it bored her. Most weekdays, James arrived home well after seven-thirty, the customary hour for a light supper.

On this particular autumn afternoon, Ashton again did not expect him until late. She spent an entire hour making herself attractive and was ready to leave at two; one hour remained of the period reserved for formal calls. Homer brought the carriage around, and they left the two-and-a-half-story house on Grace Street, in a respectable area which was nevertheless a bit too far from downtown to be fashionable.

The day was mild, but Ashton sweltered. The risk she ran was enormous, but she had been driven to it by a number of things, including her husband's timidity and her growing frustration with their inability to penetrate Richmond society. She knew two reasons: they lacked position, and they lacked real wealth. James had failed her on both counts, just as he failed her whenever he tried to satisfy her with his wretched little instrument.

She leaned back against the velvet of the closed carriage, staring out the window into the dazzle of the day. Did she dare go through with this? It had taken a week merely to locate the man's address, then another to phrase and properly polish a note announcing the date and time of her call "regarding a commercial matter of mutual interest." She could imagine the amusement in his eyes when he read that.

If he read it. She had received no reply. What if he were out of town?

She had sent the note via an anonymous black boy she had hired on a corner opposite Capitol Square. How did she know the boy had delivered the wax-sealed envelope? Preoccupied with these doubts and with anticipations of disaster, she didn't hear the clopping rhythm of the carriage horse slow, then stop.

Over the hoot of a train at the Broad Street depot, Homer called: "Here's the corner you wanted, Miz Huntoon. Shall I pick you up in an hour?"

"No. I don't know how long I'll be shopping. When I'm finished, I'll catch a hack or stop and see Mr. Huntoon and come home with him."

"Very well, ma'am." The carriage pulled out behind a white-topped army wagon. Briskly, Ashton entered the nearest store. She hurried out a few minutes later with two unwanted spools of thread. After a quick survey of the area to assure that Homer was gone, she hailed the first passing hack.

Perspiring, her heart racing, she got out in front of one of the lovely high-stooped houses on Church Hill. It was located on Franklin, a few doors from the corner of Twenty-fourth. The imposing residence looked closed against the warmth of the afternoon, asleep under the maples just starting to lose their green.

Glancing neither right nor left for fear she would see someone watching, she climbed the stoop and rang. Would there be servants —?

Lamar Powell answered personally. She nearly swooned from excitement.

He stepped back into the shadow. "Please come in, Mrs. Huntoon." She did; the door closed with a tick like that of a clock.

The foyer was cool. Rooms were visible through doors on either side, rooms with opulent woodwork, furniture, pendant crystal. One night recently, James had again brought up Powell's name, saying he had made inquiries about him. "It appears the fellow lives on nerve, self-promotion, and credit." If the snide remark had any truth to it, Powell's credit must be enormous.

He smiled at her. "I confess I was surprised to receive your note. I wasn't sure you'd keep the appointment. On a chance, I sent my houseman off fishing and stayed home. There's no one else here." He gestured with one of those slender, curiously sensual hands. "So you needn't worry about being compromised."

Ashton felt awkward as a child. He was tall — so very tall — and appeared perfectly relaxed in his dark breeches and loose white cotton shirt. He was barefoot. "It's a splendid house," she exclaimed. "How many rooms do you live in?"

Amused by her nervousness, he said, "All of them, Mrs. Huntoon." He grasped her arm gently. "When we were introduced at the Spotswood, I knew you'd come here eventually. You look lovely in that dress. I suspect you'd look even lovelier without it."

Never hesitating, he took her hand and led her to the stairs.

They ascended silently. In a room where slatted blinds striped the bed with light — she noticed the top coverlet was already turned down — they began to undress; he calmly, she with jerky movements generated by her nerves. No man had ever put her in this state before.

The silence lengthened. He helped with her bodice buttons, kissing her left cheek with great gentleness. Then he kissed her mouth, slowly moving his tongue over her lower lip. She felt as if she were sinking into a bonfire. Began to hurry, fumble —

He pushed at the lace straps on her shoulders, baring her from the waist upward. His touch careful, tender, he lifted first one breast, then the other, gently pressing his thumb against each nipple. He bent forward, still smiling in that curiously remote way. She flung her head back, eyes closed, loins damp, expecting to feel his tongue.

He smashed his open palm against her head, knocking her onto the bed. She was too terrified to scream. He stood with one leg against the tangle of her skirt, smiling.

"Why —?"

"So there is no doubt about authority in this liaison, Mrs. Huntoon. I knew when we met that you were a strong woman. Reserve your displays of that quality for others."

Then, swiftly, he bent and began to strip her of the rest of her clothing.

Her terror transformed itself to an excitement that was so intense it resembled insanity. She ran wet as a river when he slipped off his cotton drawers. He was oddly shaped, smaller than she had expected, given his stature. He pulled her legs apart and bored into her without closing his eyes.

She couldn't believe what began to happen to her. She beat the twisted damp sheets, excited to frenzy by his having struck her. She began to cry as he quickened the tempo; that had never occurred with other lovers. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and when he gave her the last ramming thrust, she sobbed, screamed, and fainted.

He lay propped on an elbow, smiling, when she woke. She was sweaty, spent, frightened by her loss of consciousness. "I passed out —"

"La petite mort. The little death. You mean it's the first time —?"

She swallowed. "Ever."

"Well, it won't be the last. I've been watching you sleep almost twenty-five minutes. Enough time for a man to renew himself." He pointed. "Put your mouth on me here."

"But — I've never done that with any —"

He seized her hair. "Did you hear what I said? Do it."

She obeyed.

They came to the next consummation a long time later. She slept again, and on the second wakening found herself free of earlier terrors. She thought vaguely of collecting the souvenir of this occasion but was too drowsy; she preferred to rest comfortably against his side.

The barred light changed, darkened. The afternoon was running out. She didn't care. What had transpired in this room, the secret things, had transfigured her emotionally but at the same time had destroyed a long-cherished sense of her own sexual enlightenment. She had had more than her share of lovers. Her souvenir collection proved that. But Lamar Powell had taught her she was a novice, a child.

Slowly, however, the second reason for the visit asserted itself. "Mr. Powell —"

His laughter boomed. "I should think we know each other well enough to use first names."

"Yes, that's true." Scarlet, she flung a wet strand of black hair off her forehead. His humor had cruelty in it. "I wanted to speak to you about business. I control the money in my household. Do you still have room for another investor in your maritime syndicate?"

"Possibly." Eyes like opaque glass hid whatever he was thinking. "How much can you put in?"

"Thirty-five thousand dollars." Investing that amount would leave only a few thousand in the event the scheme failed. But she didn't believe it would fail, any more than she had believed Powell would not bed her if she called on him.

"That sum will give you substantial equity position in the vessel," he said. "And in her profits. Does your decision mean your husband changed his mind?"

"James knows nothing about this, and he won't until I decide it's appropriate to tell him. He will also know nothing about my calling here today — or in the future."

"If there are any calls in the future." That was meant to make her squirm and worry. She didn't care for it.

"There will be if you want the money."

He leaned back, smiling. "I need it. As soon as I have it, we'll be in a position to proceed."

"I'll bring a draft next time we meet."

"Bargain. By God, you're a find. There are damn few men in this town with your nerve. We're a matched pair," he said, rolling over and bending to kiss her bare belly. This time, he was the one who fell asleep afterward.

Ashton had a box her husband had never seen. Into it went mementos of romantic liaisons lasting a month or a week or a night. The box, from Japan, was lacquered wood with designs inlaid in cleverly cut bits of pearl. On the lid, a couple sipped tea.

The inside of the lid pictured the same couple, but they had doffed their kimonos and were copulating with broad smiles. The artist had composed the design so that the genitals of both partners were distinctly shown. Considering the size of the gentleman's machine, Ashton could understand the woman's happy expression.

The souvenirs she kept in the box were trouser buttons. She had started her collection long before the war, after visiting Cousin Charles when he was a cadet at West Point. It was the custom in those days for a girl to exchange a little gift for her cadet escort — sweets of some kind were the most common — for a prized button from his uniform tunic. Ashton entertained not one but seven cadets in a single evening in the smelly darkness of the post powder magazine. From each she demanded an unconventional souvenir: a button from the fly of his trousers.

Now, while Powell slept, she crept from bed, found the pants he had flung on the floor, and silently tugged and twisted till one of the buttons popped free. She put this into her reticule and slipped back into bed, pleased. When the button was safely in the box, her collection would number twenty-eight — one for each man who had received her favors. This did not include the boy who had initiated her when she was a mere girl, one other boy, and a highly experienced sailor with whom she had had relations before her West Point visit inspired the collection. The only other partner not represented by a button was her husband.

37

Washington had scapegoat weather that autumn. McDowell continued to be castigated, but Scott now shared the blame for Bull Run. And almost nightly Stanley came home with some new Cameron horror story. The boss was being universally scourged by bureaucrats, press, and public.

"Even Lincoln's joined the claque. Our spy in the Executive Mansion saw some notes made by his secretary, Nicolay." He pulled out the scrap on which he had penciled the alarming quotes. "President says Cameron utterly ignorant. Selfish. Obnoxious to the country, incapable of either organizing details or conceiving and executing general plans." He gave her the scrap. "There was more, in the same vein. Damning."

They were taking supper by themselves; it was their custom, because, by day's end, Isabel was exhausted from dealing with the hostility of her twin sons, their resistance to discipline, and the near-lethal pranks meant to drive off the tutor she had engaged when it became evident they would never behave in a private schoolroom. She generally packed the twins off to eat in the kitchen — which suited them perfectly.

She studied the paper, then said, "We've waited too long, Stanley. You must disassociate yourself from Cameron before they lop off his head."

"I'm willing. I don't know how."

"I've thought and thought about it. I believe we can be guided by what happened to that fool Frémont." The famous Pathfinder, military commander in St. Louis, had independently declared all slaves in Missouri free. The declaration had pleased the congressional radicals, but Lincoln, still treating border-state whites with extreme deference for fear of losing them, had countermanded the order. "There is a definite schism, and we must gamble on one of the sides winning."

Baffled, Stanley shook his head and plied his fork. "But which?" he said with his mouth full of lobster.

"I can best answer by telling you who I entertained this afternoon. Caroline Wade."

"The senator's wife? Isabel, you constantly astonish me. I didn't know you were even acquainted with her."

"Until a month ago I wasn't. I took steps to arrange an introduction. She was quite cordial today, and I believe I convinced her that I'm a partisan of her husband and his clique — Chandler, Grimes, and the rest. I also hinted that you were unhappy with Simon's management of the War Department but felt helpless because of your loyalty to him."

Instantly pale, he said, "You didn't mention Lashbrook's —?"

"Stanley, you are the one who commits blunders, not I. Of course I didn't. But what if I had? There's nothing illegal about the contracts we obtained."

"No, just in the way we obtained them."

"Why are you so defensive?"

"I'm worried. I hope to Christ those bootees hold up in winter weather. Pennyford keeps warning me —"

"Kindly cease your foul language and stick to the subject."

"I'm sorry — go on."

"Mrs. Wade didn't say so explicitly, but she left the impression that the senator wants to form a new congressional committee, one that would curb the dictatorial powers the President is assuming and oversee conduct of the war. Surely a committee like that would make Simon's removal one of its first orders of business."

"Do you think so? Ben Wade is one of Simon's staunchest friends."

"Was, my dear. Was. Old alliances are shifting. Publicly, Wade may stand fast in support of the boss, but I'll wager it's a different story behind the scenes." She leaned closer. "Is Simon still out of town?"

He nodded; the secretary had gone on a tour of the Western theater.

"Then it's the perfect opportunity. You won't be watched too closely. Go see Wade, and I'll order the invitations for a levee I'm planning for his wife and the senator and their circle. I may even invite George and Constance, for the sake of appearances. I suppose I can stomach her arrogance for an evening."

"All very fine, but what am I supposed to say to the senator?"

"Keep quiet and I'll explain."

Their meal forgotten, he sat listening, scared to the marrow by the thought of approaching the toughest and most dangerous of the radicals. But the more Isabel said — first urging, then insisting — the more convinced he became that Wade represented their means of survival.

Next day he secured the appointment, though it wasn't until the end of the week. The delay upset his digestion and ruined his sleep. Several times fear prodded him to plead for a different strategy. Wade was too close to Cameron; it would be smarter to approach the President's senior secretary, Nicolay.

"Wade," Isabel insisted. "He'll be receptive, because it's always possible to do business with scoundrels."

So it was that Stanley turned up on a bench in Senator Benjamin Franklin Wade's antechamber on Friday. His stomach hurt. He clutched the gold knob of his cane as if it were some religious object. The hour of the appointment, eleven, went past. By a quarter after, Stanley was sweating heavily. By half past, he was ready to bolt. At that moment Wade's office door opened. A small, stocky man with spectacles and a magnificent beard strode out. Stanley was too terrified to move.

"Morning, Mr. Hazard. Here to take care of some departmental business?"

Say something. Cover yourself. He was positive his guilt showed. "It's — actually, it's personal, Mr. Stanton." The small but intimidating man who stood polishing his wire-frame glasses was, like Wade, an Ohioan; a Democrat who had long been one of the best and most expensive Washington lawyers, and, more recently, Buck Buchanan's attorney general. He was also Simon Cameron's personal attorney.

"So was mine," Edwin Stanton said. His whiskers exuded a strong smell of citrus pomade. "I apologize that my appointment ran over into yours. How is my client? Back from the West yet?"

"No, but I expect him soon."

"When he returns, convey my regards and say I'm at his disposal to help draft his year-end report." With that, Stanton vanished into the Capitol corridors, which still stank of greasy food cooked while volunteer troops were quartered in the building, sleeping in the Rotunda and lolling at congressional desks and conducting mock legislative sessions when the hall was empty.

"Go in, please," Wade's administrative assistant prompted from his desk.

"What? Oh, yes — thanks." Numb from the unexpected encounter with Stanton and mortally afraid of the encounter to come, he entered and shut the door. His palms felt as if they had been dipped in oil.

Ben Wade, once a prosecutor in northeastern Ohio, still had that air about him. He had come to Washington as a senator in 1851 and remained for a decade. During the crisis of Brown's raid, he had carried two horse pistols to the Senate floor to demonstrate his willingness to debate Mr. Brown's behavior in any manner his Southern colleagues chose.

Stumbling toward the senator's big walnut desk, Stanley was intimidated by the scornful droop of Wade's upper lip and the gleam of his small jet eyes. Wade was at least sixty but had a kind of tensed energy that suggested youth.

"Sit down, Mr. Hazard."

"Yes, sir."

"I recall we met at a reception for Mr. Cameron earlier this year. But I've seen you since. Bull Run, that was it. Paid two hundred dollars to rent a rig for the day. Disgraceful. What can I do for you?" He fired the words like bullets.

"Senator, it's difficult to begin —"

"Begin or leave, Mr. Hazard. I am a busy man."

If Isabel was wrong —

Wade locked his hands together on the desk and glared. "Mr. Hazard?"

Feeling like a suicide, Stanley plunged. "Sir, I'm here because I share your desire for efficient prosecution of the war and appropriate punishment for the enemy."

Wade unclasped his hands and laid them on the burnished wood. Strong hands; clean, hard. "The only appropriate punishment will be ruthless and total. Continue."

"I —" It was too late to retreat; the words tumbled forth. "I don't believe the war's being managed properly, Senator. Not by the executive" — Wade's eyes warmed slightly there — "or by my department." The warmth was instantly masked. "I can do nothing about the former —"

"Congress can and will. Go on."

"I'd like to do whatever I can about the latter. There are" — his belly burning, he forced himself to meet Wade's black gaze — "irregularities in procurement, which you surely must have heard about, and —"

"Just a moment. I thought you were one of the chosen."

Baffled, Stanley shook his head. "Sir? I don't —"

"One of the Pennsylvania bunch our mutual friend brought to Washington because they helped finance his campaigns. I was under the impression you were in that pack — you and your brother who works for Ripley."

No wonder Wade was powerful and dangerous. He knew everything. "I can't speak for my brother, Senator. And, yes, I did come here as a strong supporter of our, ah, mutual friend. But people change." A feeble grin. "The secretary was a Democrat once —"

"He is ruled by expediency, Mr. Hazard." The pitiless mouth jerked — the Wade version of a smile. "So are all of us in this trade. I was a Whig until I decided to become a Republican. It's beside the point. What are you offering? To sell him out?"

Stanley paled. "Sir, that language is —"

"Blunt but correct. Am I right?" The frantic visitor looked away, his cheeks damp with cold sweat. "Of course I am. Well, let's hear your proposition. Certain members of Congress might be interested. Two years ago, Simon and Zach Chandler and I were inseparable. We made a pact: an attack on one would be considered an attack on all, and we'd carry retaliation to the grave if necessary. But times and attitudes — and friends — do change, as you have sagaciously observed."

Stanley licked his lips, wondering whether the unsmiling senator was mocking him.

Wade went on: "The war effort is foundering. Everyone knows it. President Lincoln's dissatisfied with Simon. Everyone knows that, too. Should Lincoln fail to act in the matter, others will, much as they might regret it personally." A brief pause. "What could you offer to them, Mr. Hazard?"

"Information on contracts improperly let," Stanley whispered. "Names. Dates. Everything. Orally. I refuse to write a word. But I could be very helpful to, let's say, a congressional committee —"

A verbal sword slashed at him. "What committee?"

"I — why, I don't know. Whichever has jurisdiction —"

Satisfied by the evasion, Wade relaxed slightly. "And what would you ask in return for this assistance? A guarantee of immunity for yourself?" Stanley nodded.

Wade leaned back, brought his hands up beneath his nose, fingertips touching. The jet eyes bored in, pinning his caller, expressing contempt. Stanley knew he was finished. Cameron would hear of this the instant he returned. Goddamn his stupid wife for —

"I am interested. But you must convince me you're not offering counterfeit goods." The prosecutor leaned toward the witness. "Give me two examples. Be specific."

Stanley burrowed in his pockets for notes Isabel had suggested he prepare to meet such an eventuality. He served Wade two small helpings from his tray of secrets, and when he finished, found the senator's manner distinctly more cordial. Wade asked him to speak to the assistant outside and arrange a meeting at a more secure location where Wade could receive the disclosures without fear of interruption or observation. Dazed, Stanley realized it was all over.

At the door, Wade shook his hand with vigor. "I recall my wife mentioning a levee at your house soon. I look forward to it."

Feeling like a battle-tested hero, Stanley lurched out. Bless Isabel. She had been right after all. There was a conspiracy to unseat the boss, either through congressional action or by presentation of damning information to the President. Was it possible that Stanton was in the scheme, too?

No matter. What counted was his deal with the old crook from Ohio. Like Daniel, he had walked among lions and survived. By midafternoon he was convinced it was all his doing, with Isabel's role incidental.

38

His name was Arthur Scipio Brown. He was twenty-seven, a man the color of amber, with broad shoulders, a waist tiny as a girl's, and hands so huge they suggested weapons. Yet he spoke softly, with the slight nasality of New England. He had been born in Roxbury, outside Boston, of a black mother whose white lover deserted her.

Early in his acquaintance with Constance Hazard, Brown said his mother had sworn not to surrender to the sadness caused by the man who had promised to love her always, then left, or by the way her color impeded her even in liberal Boston. She had spent her mind and her energy — her entire life, he said — serving her race. She had taught the children of free black men and women in a shack school six days a week and given different lessons to pupils in a Negro congregation every Sunday. She had died a year ago, cancer-ridden but holding her boy's hand, clear-eyed and refusing laudanum to the end.

"She was forty-two. Never had much of a life," Brown said. It was a statement, not a plea for pity. "No braver woman ever walked this earth."

Constance met Scipio Brown at the reception for Dr. Delany, the pan-Africanist. In his splendid dyed robes, Delany circulated among the fifty or sixty guests invited to the Chase residence, enthralling them with his conversation. It was Delany who had brought young Brown to the reception.

Falling into conversation with Brown, George and Constance were fascinated by his demeanor as well as his history and his views. He was as tall as Cooper Main, and though he was not well dressed — his frock coat, an obvious hand-me-down, had worn lapels and sleeves that ended two inches above his wrists — he didn't act self-conscious. The clothes were probably the best he owned, and if people were scornful, the problem was theirs, not his.

When Brown said he was a disciple of Martin Delany, Constance asked, "You mean you'd leave the country for Liberia or some equivalent place, given the chance?"

Brown drank some tea. He handled the cup as gracefully as anyone present. "A year ago, I would have said yes immediately. Today, I'm less certain. America is viciously anti-Negro, and I imagine it will remain so for several generations yet. But I anticipate improvements. I believe in Corinthians."

Standing with his head back a few degrees, which was necessary when George conversed with extremely tall men, he said, "I beg your pardon?"

Brown smiled. His head was long, his features regular but unmemorable. His smile, however, seemed to resort those features into a shining amber composition that was immensely attractive and winning. "Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. 'Behold, I shew you a mystery. We shall not all sleep but we shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall all be changed.'" He drank more tea. "I just hope we don't have to wait until the last trump, which is a part of the verse I left out."

George said, "I grant that your race has suffered enormous tribulation. But wouldn't you say that you personally have been fortunate? You grew up free, and you've lived that way all your life."

Unexpectedly, Brown showed anger. "Do you honestly think that makes any difference, Major Hazard? Every colored person in this country is enslaved to the fears of whites and to the way those fears influence white behavior. You're fooled because my chains don't show. But I still have them. I am a black man. The struggle is my struggle. Every cross is my cross — in Alabama or Chicago or right here."

Bristling slightly, George said, "If you consider this country so wicked, what's kept you from leaving?"

"I thought I told you. Hope of change. My studies have taught me that change is one of the world's few constants. America's hypocritical picture of the freedom it offers has been destined to change since the Declaration was signed, because the institution of slavery is evil and never was anything else. I hope the war will hasten abolition. Once I was foolish enough to think the law would accomplish the task, but Dred Scott showed that even the Supreme Court's tainted. The last resort and shelter of despotism."

George refused to surrender. "I'll grant much of what you say, Brown. But not that remark about American freedom being hypocritical. I think you overstate the case."

"I disagree. But if so" — the smile warmed away any antagonism — "consider it one of the few privileges of my color."

"So it's hope of change that keeps you here — " Constance began.

"That and my responsibilities. It's mostly the children who keep me here."

"Ah, you're married."

"No, I'm not."

"Then whose —?"

A call from Kate Chase interrupted. Dr. Delany had consented to speak briefly. The secretary's attractive daughter wanted the guests to refill their cups and plates and find places.

At the serving table, where a young black girl in a domestic's apron gave Brown an admiring glance, George said, "I'd like to hear more of your views. We live at Willard's Hotel —"

"I know."

The statement astonished Constance, though it seemed to pass right by her husband.

"Will you dine with us there some night?"

"Thank you, Major, but I doubt the management would like that. The Willard brothers are decent men, but I'm still one of their employees."

"You're what?"

"I am a porter at Willard's Hotel. It's the best job I could find here. I won't work for the army. The army's running its own peculiar institution these days: hiring my people to cook and chop wood and fetch and carry for a pittance. We're good enough to dig sinks but not good enough to fight. That's why I'm a porter instead."

"Willard's," George muttered. "I'm dumbfounded. Have we ever passed one another in the lobby or the hallways?"

Brown led them toward chairs. "Certainly. Dozens of times.

You may look at me, but you never see me. It's another privilege of color. Mrs. Hazard, will you be seated?"

Later, realizing Brown was right, George started to apologize, but the lanky Negro brushed it away with a smile and a shrug. They had no further opportunity to talk. But Constance remained curious about his reference to children. Next afternoon at the hotel, she searched until she found him removing trash and discarded cigar butts from sand urns. Ignoring stares from people in the lobby, she asked Brown to explain what he meant.

"The children are runaways, what that cross-eyed general Butler calls contrabands. There's a black river flowing out of the South these days. Sometimes children escape with their parents, then the parents get lost. Sometimes the children don't belong to anyone, just tag along after the adults making the dash. Would you like to see some of the children, Mrs. Hazard?"

His eyes fastened on hers, testing. "Where?" she countered.

"Out where I live, on north Tenth Street."

"Negro Hill?" The soft intake of breath before the question gave her away. He didn't react angrily.

"There's nothing to fear just because it's a black community. We have only our fair share of undesirables, same as down here — I take it back, you have more." He grinned. "You also have the politicians. Truly, you'll be perfectly safe if you'd care to come. I don't work Tuesdays. We could go during the day."

"All right," Constance said, hoping George would agree to it.

Surprisingly, he did. "If anyone could protect a woman anywhere, I have a feeling it's that young chap. Go visit his community of waifs. I'll be fascinated to know what it's like."

George paid a livery to bring a carriage to Willard's front door on Tuesday. The lout delivering it glowered when he saw Brown and Constance sit side by side on the driver's seat. The Negro was a companion, not a servant. The lout muttered something nasty, but one glance from Brown cut it short.

"When did you come to Washington?" Constance asked as Brown drove them away from the hotel into the perennial congestion of omnibuses, military wagons, horses, and pedestrians.

"Last fall, after Old Abe won."

"Why then?"

"Didn't I explain at the reception? The resettlement plan is in abeyance because of the war, and I thought this might be the cockpit of change. I hoped some useful work might find me, and it has. You'll see — Hah!" He bounced the reins over the team.

Soon they were rattling through the autumn heat to the over­grown empty lots far out on Tenth. Negro Hill was a depressing enclave of tiny homes, most unpainted, and hovels built of poles, canvas, and pieces of old crates. She saw chicken pens, vegetable patches, flowerpots. The small touches could do little to relieve the air of festering poverty.

The Negroes they passed gave them curious, occasionally suspicious looks. Presently Brown turned left into a rutted lane. At the end stood a cottage of new yellow pine bright as sunflower petals.

"The whole community helped build this," he said. "It's already too small. We can feed and house only twelve. But it's a start, and all we could afford."

The shining little house smelled deliciously of raw wood and hearth smoke and, inside, of soap. The interior, brightened by large windows, consisted of two rooms. In the nearer one, a stout black woman sat on a stool, Bible in hand, with twelve poorly dressed waifs of all shades from ebony to tan encircling her feet; the youngest child was four or five, the oldest ten or eleven. Through the doorway arch, Constance saw pallets laid in precise rows.

One beautiful coppery girl of six or seven ran to the tall man. "Uncle Scipio, Uncle Scipio!"

"Rosalie." He swept her up and hugged her. After he put her down, he walked Constance a short distance away and said, "Rosalie escaped from North Carolina along with her mother, stepfather, and her aunt. Near Petersburg a white farmer with a rifle caught them in his haymow. He killed the mother and stepfather, but Rosalie and her aunt got away."

"Where's the aunt now?"

"In the city, hunting for work. I haven't seen her for three weeks."

More children came clamoring around his legs. He patted heads, faces, shoulders, offering just the right encouragement or question to each as he worked his way to the old iron stove where a soup pot simmered; mostly broth and bones, Constance observed.

She ate with Brown and the lost children and the black woman, Agatha, who tended them while Brown was away at his job. Most of the youngsters laughed and wiggled and poked each other in a childlike way, but there were two, sad and grave, who didn't speak at all, merely sat spooning up broth in the slow, exhausted manner of the elderly. She had to turn away to keep from crying.

In spite of that, the place and the youngsters fascinated her. She hated to see the visit end. On the way back to Willard's, she asked, "What's your plan for those children?"

"First, I must feed and shelter them so they don't starve. The politicians will do nothing for them; I know that."

"You do have strong feelings about politicians, Mr. Brown."

"Why not Scipio? I'd like us to be friends. And, yes, I do despise the breed. Politicians helped put the shackles on black people and, what's worse, they have kept them there."

The carriage bumped on for a minute. Then she said, "Beyond helping the children survive, do you have anything else in mind for them?"

"From the necessary we move to the ideal. If I could locate another suitable place for the twelve you saw — a place to house and teach them till I can find homes for them — I could take in twelve more. But I can't afford to do it on what they pay me to empty the spit from brass pots." Eyes on the yellow and red leaves over the street, he added, "It would be possible only with the help of a patron."

"Is that why you brought me to Negro Hill?"

"Because I had hopes?" He smiled at her. "Of course."

"And of course you knew I'd say yes — though I'm not sure how we'll work out the details."

"Don't do it just to ease your white guilt."

"Damn your impertinence, Brown — I'll do it for whatever reason I please. I lost my heart to those waifs."

"Good," he said.

They drove another block, past the first white residence. Two children were petting a pony on the side lawn. Constance cleared her throat. "Please excuse my language a moment ago. Occasionally my temper shows. I'm Irish."

He grinned. "I guessed."

Constance didn't know how George would react to her desire to help Brown. To her delight, he went far beyond mere consent. "If he needs a place for the children, why don't we provide it? And food, clothing, books — furnishing everything would hardly make a nick in our income, and the work sounds eminently worthwhile. God knows little black children shouldn't be made to suffer for past and present stupidities of their white elders."

Lighting his cigar, he squinted through the smoke in a way that lent him a familiar piratical air, made even stronger by his new mustache. That look effectively hid a sentimental streak Constance had discovered years ago and loved ever since. With his thumbnail George shot the match straight into the hearth. "Yes, I definitely believe you should invite Brown to set up his facility back home."

"Where exactly?"

"What about the shed above Hazard's? The site of the old fugitive depot?"

"The location's good, but the building is small."

"We'll expand it. Add a couple of dormitories, a classroom, a dining room — The company carpenters can do the work."

Reality intruded on enthusiasm when she said, "Will they?"

"They work for me — they damn well better." He reflected a moment, then frowned. "I don't understand why you even asked the question."

"The children are black, George."

His reply was ingenuous. "Do you think that would matter?"

"To many, maybe most, of the citizens of Lehigh Station, yes, I think it would. Very much so."

"Mmm. Never occurred to me." He paced to the mantel, turning his cigar in his fingers as he often did when working on a problem. "Still — that's no excuse for rejecting the idea. It's a good one. We'll do it."

She clapped her hands, delighted. "Perhaps Mr. Brown and I could travel home for a few days to get things started. We might even take a child or two."

"I can arrange a short leave and go with you."

She started to say that would be splendid but caught herself. Vivid as a railway warning lantern in the night, there was a name: Virgilia.

"That's generous, but you're busy. I'm sure Mr. Brown and I can survey the property."

"Fine." His words and his shrug relieved her. "I'll write Christopher a letter to authorize whatever work you want done. Speaking of letters, have you seen this?" From the mantel he took a soiled, badly crumpled missive sealed shut with wax.

"It's from Father," she exclaimed when she saw the handwriting. She tore it open, sank to the sofa, read a few lines with a strained expression. "He's reached Houston — wearing his revolver constantly, he says, and constantly biting his tongue because of the hot rebel sentiments expressed everywhere. Oh, I hope he makes the rest of the journey safely."

George walked to her side, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. We are all on a journey now. God knows who among us will come through it safely. He stood patting her and smoking his cigar while she finished reading.

Constance and Brown left Washington a few days later. Brown had chosen three children to go with them: Leander, a sturdy eleven-year-old with a belligerent manner; Margaret, a shy, coal-black child; and Rosalie, the pretty little one whose merriment filled the silences of the others.

The fear she had expressed to George was not without substance, she discovered. A conductor at the Washington depot insisted that Brown and the children ride in the second-class car reserved for colored. Brown's eyes revealed his anger, but he didn't provoke a scene. Leading the youngsters up the aisle, he said, "I'll see you farther up the line, Mrs. Hazard."

When they had left the car, the conductor said, " 'S that nigger your servant, ma'am?"

"That man is my friend."

The conductor walked off shaking his head.

After changing at Baltimore, they journeyed on toward Philadelphia through golden autumn landscapes. Men around Constance thumped their newspapers and crowed over the superiority of Yankee soldiers. At a place called Cheat Mountain in rugged western Virginia, the enemy general once considered America's best soldier had taken a drubbing.

"It says down in Richmond folks call him Evacuating Lee. There's one reb star that's sinking mighty fast."

The Lehigh valley, fired with the reds and yellows of fall, seemed refreshingly peaceful to the tired adult travelers. On the station platform, the children gaped at the homes rising in terraced levels, the looming ironworks with its smoke and noise, and the great scene-drop of mountains and evening sky. Little Rosalie whispered, "Lordy."

Constance had telegraphed ahead. A groom was there with a carriage. She didn't miss the brief change in his expression when he realized Brown and the children were her companions.

The rig rattled up the inclined street. The two little girls squealed and hugged Brown as the wind ruffled their hair and clothes. Pinckney Herbert waved from the door of his store, but the faces of some other citizens, notably a discharged Hazard's employee named Lute Fessenden, showed hostility. Giving the youngsters a murderous stare, Fessenden whispered to a companion as the carriage passed.

Western light poured over the mansion at the summit. Brett was waiting on the veranda, together with a woman Constance didn't recognize until they were in the driveway. The carnage stopped; Constance alighted and ran up the steps. "Virgilia? How lovely you look! I can't believe my eyes."

"It's the handiwork of our sister-in-law," Virgilia said, nodding toward Brett. She spoke as if the change were unimportant, but a vivacity in her expression gave her away.

Constance marveled. Virgilia's dress of rust-colored silk with lace cuffs flattered her figure, which loss of a great deal of weight had reshaped into voluptuous, billowy curves. Her hair, neatly bunned at the back of her head, gleamed with a cleanliness Constance had never seen before. There was color in Virgilia's cheeks, but rouge and powder had been applied subtly and expertly; they rendered her old scars nearly invisible. Virgilia would never qualify as a pretty woman, but she had become a handsome one.

"I'm neglecting my duties," Constance said. She performed introductions, and in a few sentences explained why she had brought Scipio Brown and the children to Belvedere.

Brett was polite to Brown, but cool; nor had he missed her accent. Constance watched Virgilia's eye draw a languorous line from Brown's face to his chest. He quickly busied himself with the children, kneeling and fussing over them. Seeing Brown embarrassed was a new experience for Constance. Recalling Virgilia's fondness for Negro men, she realized George's sister had not changed in certain fundamental respects.

The visitors were taken into the house, fed, and settled for the night. Next morning, while Virgilia looked after the children and vainly tried to draw Leander into conversation, Constance and Brown drove to the main gate of Hazard's and up to the remote site of the shed that had functioned for a time as a stop on the underground railroad to Canada.

Brown poked around inside, then came out. "With some fixing, it will be perfect." They discussed specifics while they drove back down to the gate. Workers respectfully stepped out of the way of the carriage, but most registered silent disapproval of a black man appearing in public with the owner's wife.

By noon they had spoken with Wotherspoon, and he had dispatched men to knock out one wall of the shed and patch and whitewash the other three. Late in the day, Constance and Brown went to check on progress. The head of the painting crew, a middle-aged fellow named Abraham Fouts, had worked for Hazard's fifteen years. Always friendly, this afternoon he merely gave Constance a nod and no greeting. That night, while the adults and children ate supper, someone threw a stone through the front window.

Leander spun toward the noise, tense as a cat whose whiskers touched something threatening in the dark. Virgilia rose in wrath. To the surprise of George's wife, it was Brown who sounded a note of tolerance.

"Some of that's to be expected when a man like me comes into a house like this — and through the front door."

"That's true, Mr. Brown," Brett responded. It was not said unkindly, but it produced an angry glance from the visitor. Tired all at once, Constance realized she had overlooked a potential problem here. Brown couldn't be expected to like Southerners any more than a South Carolina native could readily accept a black at the dinner table.

Up early, she drove alone to the shed, arriving simultaneously with Abraham Fouts and his crew of four. Fouts and a second man suppressed smirks at the sight of big, crude letters someone had slashed onto the side of the shed with black paint: WE ARE FOR THE WAR BUT WE AINT FOR THE NIGGER.

Saddened and angry, Constance hoisted her skirts and stormed to the wall. She rubbed her thumb across the last letters as if to sripe them out. They were dry. "Mr. Fouts, please paint over this obscenity till it can't be seen. If the message or anything like it appears again, you will do the same thing, and keep doing it until the nastiness stops or this building collapses under a hundred coats of whitewash."

The pale man poked nervously at his upper lip. "They's a lot of talk about this place among the men, Miz Hazard. They say it's gonna be some kind of home for nigger babies. They don't like that."

"What they like is immaterial to me. My husband owns this property, and I'll do whatever I please with it."

Goaded by glances from the others, Fouts stuck out his chin. "Your husband, he might not —"

"My husband knows and approves of what I plan to do. If you care to keep working for Hazard's, get busy."

Fouts dug a toe in the dirt, but another man was bolder. "We ain't 'customed to takin' orders from a female, even if she is the wife of the boss."

"Fine." Constance was melting with anger and uncertainty but didn't dare show it. "I'm sure there are any number of manufactories where it isn't necessary. Collect your pay from Mr. Wotherspoon."

The stunned man raised his hand. "Wait a minute, I —"

"You're done here." She pointed to the man's hand, stained between thumb and index finger. "I see you used some black paint last night. How courageous of you to state your views under cover of darkness." Her voice broke as she took swift steps forward. "Get out of here and collect your pay."

The man ran. Anxiety replaced her fear; she had certainly exceeded the authority George had granted her. Well, it was too late to worry. Besides, Brown's shelter would never be secure unless she made sure of it.

"I regret this incident, Mr. Fouts, but I stand fast. Do you want to whitewash the building or quit?" She saw three men with carpenter's tools trudging up the hill; she would have to ask the same of them.

"I'll work," Fouts grumbled. "But for a bunch of nigras? It ain't right."

Returning to Belvedere, she tried to purge herself of her rage. The North was no pristine fount of morality — a fact that had infuriated Southerners subjected to abolitionist rhetoric for three decades and more. Fouts no doubt believed with perfect sincerity that the Negro was inferior to the white man; George said Lincoln had been known to express the same view. She could understand that Fouts was a product of the times, comfortable and safe in sharing the opinions of a majority.

But condone those views or join that majority — or let it intimidate her? The devil she would. She was the wife of George Hazard. She was the daughter of Patrick Flynn.

"Abominable," Virgilia said when Constance told her about the painted message. "If we had proper leadership in Washington, things would be different. I believe they will be soon."

"Why is that?" Brett asked from across the table laden with a huge lamb roast and five other dishes, comprising the typically gargantuan midday meal. Rosalie, Margaret, and Leander didn't eat; they devoured. Even Brown couldn't seem to get enough.

"The President's a weakling." Virgilia handed down the pronouncement in much the same tone that had caused so much trouble in the past. "Look at the way he responded to Fremont's manumission order in Missouri. He cowers and caters to the slave masters of Kentucky and the other border states —"

"He does that for military reasons, I'm told."

Virgilia paid no attention to Constance. "— but Thad Stevens and some others show signs of wanting to bring him to heel. With the right Republicans in control, Lincoln will get what he richly deserves. So will the rebs."

"Please excuse me," Brett said, and left the room.

After the meal, Constance gathered her nerve to speak to Virgilia in private. "I wish you wouldn't make — pronouncements in front of Brett. You said she extended herself to help you, that she's responsible for the wonderful change, and —"

"Yes, she helped me, but that has nothing to do with the truth or —" She took a breath, finally comprehending that Constance was furious with her.

Virgilia's new vision of herself, her increased confidence, had begun to change her perceptions in a number of other ways. Sometimes it was necessary to be tactful with opponents. She forced a sigh. "You're perfectly right. While I can never abandon my beliefs —"

"No one asks that of you."

"— I do understand that Brett's entitled to some deference."

"Not to mention plain everyday courtesy."

"Certainly. She's become part of the family, and, as you say, she was kind to me. I'll try harder from now on. Still, under the present arrangement, there are bound to be disputes."

Quietly: "Since you brought up what you call the present arrangement, suppose we discuss it."

Virgilia nodded. "I know that my grace period here is running out. I'm anxious to leave. Anxious to get back into the stream of things. I don't know how. Where can I go to earn a livelihood? What can I do when I have no training and very little education in practical things?"

Virgilia slowly walked to the parlor window. A shower was in progress. Rain clung to the glass, casting patterns on her face like new pox scars. In a small, sad voice, she said, "Those are the questions I've never had to ask before. To wait for answers that don't come is frightening, Constance."

She stared into the rain. Constance thought, Don't wait — search! But the pique passed, and she again felt pity for George's sister. Virgilia appeared a changed woman, but did the changes go any deeper than her skin? She began to doubt it.

Two points clarified themselves as a result of the brief conversation. Virgilia had to leave Belvedere before George discovered her presence or Brett, goaded to anger, told him. But she was incapable of finding her way alone, so part of that burden, too, fell on Constance.

39

In late October, Mrs. Burdetta Halloran of Richmond was a woman distressed.

Two years a childless widow, she was thirty-three, statuesque, with gorgeous auburn hair, a stunning derriere, and breasts that were, in her opinion, merely adequate. But the package had been sufficiently enchanting to captivate the wine merchant who had wed her when she was twenty-one. Sixteen years her senior, Halloran had died of heart failure while struggling to satisfy her strong sexual appetites.

Poor fellow, she had liked him well enough, even though he lacked the technique and stamina to keep her happy physically. He had treated her well, however, and she had only cuckolded him twice: the first liaison had lasted four days, the second a single night. His passing had left her in comfortable circumstances — or she had thought so until this wretched war came.

Today, when the rest of the town was euphoric about a victory at some spot near the Potomac called Ball's Bluff, she was upset by her tour of retail stores. Prices were climbing. Her pound of bacon had cost fifty cents, her pound of coffee an outrageous dollar and a half. Only last week the freedman who supplied her from the country with stove and firewood had announced that he wanted eight dollars for the next cord, not five. With such inflation, she would not long survive in her accustomed style.

Born a Soames — the family went back four generations in the Old Dominion — she deplored all the changes in her city, her state, and in the social order. Bob Lee, finest of the fine, was being mocked with the name "Granny" because of his military failures; she had heard he would soon be shipped to one of the benighted military districts of the cotton South.

Queen Varina was outraging members of local society by forming a court made up chiefly of those who were not. Oh, Joe Johnston's wife belonged, but Burdetta Halloran suspected she did so to advance her husband's career; she certainly had nothing in common with the rest of the upstarts who surrounded and influenced the First Lady: Mrs. Mallory, a flaming papist; Mrs. Wigfall, a vulgar Texan; Mrs. Chesnut, a Carolina bitch. Beneath contempt, every one. Yet they were favored.

The city was too crowded. Harlots and speculators poured off every arriving train. Hordes of niggers, many undoubtedly fugitives, swelled the mobs of idlers in the streets. Captured Yankees filled the improvised prisons, like Liggon's Tobacco Factory at Twenty-fifth and Main. Their unprecedented arrogance and contempt for all things Southern outraged solid citizens like Burdetta Halloran, who courageously bore the cross of Jeff Davis and spent every free hour knitting socks and more socks for the troops.

She had stopped knitting two weeks ago, when her distress reached crisis proportions. This afternoon, covertly nipping on whiskey from a flask in a crocheted cozy, she was traveling in a hack to Church Hill. She had been contemplating the visit for days. Sleeplessness and mounting despair had finally pushed her to act.

The hack slowed. She sipped again, then hid the covered flask in her bag. "Shall I wait?" the driver asked after he parked near the corner of Twenty-fourth. Some dismal premonition caused Mrs. Halloran to nod.

She darted along the walk and up the stoop, so nervous she nearly fell. She had drunk the liquor for courage, but it only dulled her mind and sharpened her anxiety. She raised the knocker and let it fall.

Her heart beat hurtfully. The slanting October light foretold winter — sadness and loneliness. God, wasn't he here? She knocked again, harder and longer.

The door opened six inches. She nearly fainted from happiness. Then she looked more closely at her lover. His hair was uncombed, and a wedge of skin showed between sagging lapels of claret velvet. A dressing gown at this hour?

At first she assumed he was ill. Soon she realized the truth and the extent of her stupidity.

"Burdetta." There was no surprise and no welcome in the way he said her name. Nor did he open the door wider.

"Lamar, you haven't answered a single one of my letters."

"I thought you'd understand the significance of silence."

"Dear Lord, you don't mean — you wouldn't simply cast me out — not after six months of unbelievable —"

"This is an embarrassment," he said, his voice lower and hard as his instrument when he took her in various ways, satiating her only after four or five hours. His eyes shunted past her to the curious hackman on his high seat. "For both of us."

"Who have you got now? Some young slut? Is she inside?" She sniffed. "My God, you have. You must have soaked in her perfume." Tears filled her eyes. She extended her hand through the opening. "Darling, at least let me come in. Talk this out. If I've wronged or offended you —"

"Pull your hand back, Burdetta," he said, smiling. "Otherwise you'll get hurt. I'm going to shut the door."

"You unspeakable bastard." Her whisper had no effect; the sun-splashed door began to close. He would have broken her wrist or fingers if she hadn't withdrawn her hand quickly. The door clicked. Six months of risking her reputation, of performing every conceivable wickedness for him, and this was how it ended? With indifference? With the sort of dismissal a man would give a whore?

Burdetta Soames Halloran had been schooled in Southern graces, which included courage and the maintenance of poise in the face of social disaster. Although it would take days or weeks to compose her emotions — Lamar Powell had spoken to some animalistic side of her, and she had never loved any man more or more completely — it took less than ten seconds for her to compose her face. When she turned and carefully stepped down the first tall riser, her hoops raised in her gloved hands, she was smiling.

"Ready?" the hackman asked, unnecessarily, since she was waiting for him to jump and open the door.

"Yes, I am. It required only a moment to conclude my business."

In fact, she had only begun it.

40

Turmoil swept the Carolina coast that autumn. On the seventh of November, Commodore Du Pont's flotilla steamed into Port Royal Sound and opened fire on Hilton Head Island. The bombardment from Du Pont's gunboats sent the small Confederate garrison retreating to the mainland before the sun set. Two days later, nearby, the historic little port of Beaufort fell. There came reports of burning and looting of white homes by rapacious Yankee soldiers and revengeful blacks.

Each day brought new rumors. Arson would soon raze Charleston, which would be replaced by a city for black fugitives; Harriet Tubman was in the state, or coming to the state, or thinking about coming to the state, to urge slaves to run or revolt; for failure in western Virginia, Lee had been banished to command the new Department of South Carolina, Georgia, and East Florida.

The last proved true. Unexpectedly, the famous soldier and three of his senior staff appeared on horseback in the lane of Mont Royal one twilight. They spent an hour with Orry in the parlor before riding on to Yemassee.

Orry had met Lee once, in Mexico; yet because of the man's reputation, both military and personal, he felt he knew him well. What a jolt, then, to confront the visitor and find he no longer resembled his published portraits. Lee was fifty-four or fifty-five, but his seamed face, shadowed eyes, white-streaked beard, and general air of strain made him appear much older. Orry had never seen a picture of Lee with a beard, and said so.

"Oh, I brought this back from the Cheat Mountain campaign," Lee said. "Along with a portfolio of nicknames I'd be happier to discard." His staff men laughed, but the mirth was forced. "How is your cousin, young Charles?"

"He's well, the last I heard. He enlisted with the Hampton Legion. I'm surprised you remember him."

"Impossible to forget him. While I was superintendent, he was the best rider I saw at the Academy."

Lee fell to discussing the point of his visit. He wanted Orry to accept the commission in Richmond, even though he was no longer headquartered there and could not employ him directly. "You can be of great service to the War Department, however. It isn't true, as the backbiters would have it, that President Davis constantly interferes or that he's the person who actually runs the department." Lee paused. "It is not completely true, I mean to say."

"I plan to go as soon as I can, General. I've just been awaiting the arrival of a new overseer to run the place. He's due any day."

"Good news. Splendid! You and every West Point man like you are of infinite value to the army and the conduct of the war. The great failing of Mr. Davis, if I may in confidence suggest one, is his belief that there's nothing wrong with secession. Perhaps in the South there is not. In Washington, I assure you, they consider it treason. I am not enough of a constitutionalist to state positively that the act was illegal, but I consider it a blunder whose magnitude is only now being perceived. But no matter what personal feelings you or any of us have about secession, one of its consequences is immutable. We shall have to win our right to it — our right to exist as a separate nation. When I say win, I am speaking of military victory. Mr. Davis, regrettably, believes the right will be awarded us if we merely press our claim rhetorically. That is the dream of an idealist. Laudable, perhaps, but a dream. What we did was heinous to a majority of our former country­men. Only force of arms will gain and hold independence. Academy men will understand and fight the war as it must be fought, unless we plan to quit or be defeated."

"Fight," one of the staff men growled. Orry nodded to agree.

"That's the proper spirit," Lee said, rising; his knees creaked. He shook Orry's hand, passed a social moment on the piazza with Madeline, then rode away to the duties of his obscure command. Orry put his arm around his wife and pulled her against him in the chill of the darkening sky. Parting was inevitable now. It hurt to think of it.

Next morning, further news came. Nine blacks from Francis LaMotte's plantation had used basket boats, woven in secret, to float down the Ashley on the ebb tide. They had abandoned the boats above Charleston and fled south, presumably to the Union lines around Beaufort.

Along with that report, the day brought the overseer from North Carolina, Philemon Meek, mounted on a mule.

Orry's first reaction was disappointment. He had expected a man in his sixties, but not someone with the stoop and demeanor of an aged schoolmaster; Meek even wore half-glasses down near the tip of his nose.

Orry interviewed Meek for an hour in the library, and the impression began to change. Meek answered his new employer's questions tersely but honestly. When he didn't know or understand something, he said so. He told Orry that he didn't believe in harsh discipline unless slaves brought it on themselves. Orry replied that, except for Cuffey and one or two others, few at Mont Royal were troublemakers.

Meek then made clear that he was a religious man. He owned and read only one book, the Scriptures. Any kind of reading was hard for him, he admitted, which perhaps contributed to his strongly stated opinion that secular books, and especially fiction, were satanically inspired. Orry made no comment. It wasn't an unusual attitude among the devout.

"I'm not sure about him," Orry told Madeline that night. In a week, he formed more positive opinions. Despite Meek's age, he was physically strong and brooked no nonsense from those who worked for him. Andy didn't appear to like Meek but got along with him. So Orry packed his trunks and the Solingen sword, ready at last.

The day before his train left, he and Madeline went walking. It was a dying November afternoon around four o'clock. The sun was slightly above the treetops, ringed by spikes of light. In the west the sky was a smoky white, shading away to deep blue in the east. Somewhere in the far squares of the rice acreage, a slave with a fine baritone sang in Gullah: spontaneous music of a kind seldom heard at Mont Royal any more.

"You're anxious to go, aren't you?" Madeline said as they retraced their route from the great house.

Orry squinted against the cruciform light around the sun. "I'm not anxious to leave you, though I feel better about it now that Meek's here."

"That doesn't answer my question, sir." "Yes, I am anxious. You'll never guess the reason. It's my old friend Tom Jackson. In six months, he's become a national hero." "You surprise me. I never thought you had that kind of ambition."

"Oh, no. Not since Mexico, anyway. The point about Jackson is, we were classmates. He rushed to do his duty, while I've taken half a year to answer the call. Not without good reason — but I still feel guilty."

She wrapped both arms around his and hugged it between her breasts. "Don't. Your waiting's over. And in a few weeks, when Meek has settled in, I'll be on my way to Richmond for the duration."

"Good." Peace and a sense of events moving properly for a change settled on him as they drew near the house, long shadows stretching out behind them. Orry fingered his chin. "I saw a lithograph of Tom last week. He has a fine bushy beard. All the officers seem to have them. Would you like it if I grew one?"

"I can't answer until I know how badly it scratches when we —"

She stopped. The houseman, Aristotle, was waving from a side entrance in a way that conveyed urgency. They hurried toward him. Orry was the first to see the rickety wagon and despondent mule standing at the head of the lane.

"Got two visitors, Mr. Orry. Uppity pair of niggers. Won't state their business to nobody but you and Miss Madeline. I packed 'em off to the kitchen to wait."

Orry asked, "Are they men from another plantation?"

The irritated slave grumbled, "It's two females."

Puzzled, Orry and Madeline turned toward the kitchen building, the center of a cloud of savory barbecue smells. Nearing it, they recognized the elderly Negress seated in an old rocker near the door. Her right leg, crudely splinted and bound with sticks and rags, rested on an empty nail box.

"Aunt Belle," Madeline exclaimed, while Orry speculated about the identity of the octoroon's companion, just coming outside. She wore field buck's shoes; the right side of one upper had been pulled away from the sole. Her dress had been washed so often, all color had been lost. She was an astonishingly attractive young girl, nubile and dark as mahogany.

Madeline hugged the frail old woman, exclaiming all in a rush, "How are you? What happened to your leg? Is it broken?" Aunt Belle Nin had practiced midwifery in the district for a generation, living alone and free back in the marshes. She and Madeline had met at Resolute, where Aunt Belle came occasionally to assist with a difficult birth. It was to Aunt Belle that Madeline had taken Ashton when Orry's sister got herself in a fix and begged Madeline's help.

"That's a lot of questions," Aunt Belle said, grimacing uncomfortably. "Yes, it's broke in two or three places. When you're my age that's no blessing. I fell trying to climb into our wagon last night." Bright eyes deep-set in flesh of mottled yellow studied Orry as if he were a museum exhibit. "See you got yourself a different husband."

"Yes. Aunt Belle, this is Orry Main."

"I know who he is. He's a sight better than the one you had before. This pretty thing is my niece, Jane. She used to belong to the Widow Milsom, up on the Combahee, but the old lady perished of pneumonia last winter. Her will gave Jane her freedom. She's been living with me since."

"Pleased to meet you," Jane said, with no curtsy or other demonstration of deference. Orry wondered if he could believe Aunt Belle. The girl might be a fugitive, gambling that no one would check her story in these disordered times.

In the ensuing silence, someone dropped a pot in the kitchen. One girl spoke sharply to another. A third intervened; soft laughter signaled restored harmony. Jane realized the white people were awaiting an explanation.

"Aunt Belle's health has not been good lately. But she wouldn't give up the marsh house till I convinced her there was a better place."

"You don't mean here?" Orry asked, still not certain what they wanted.

"No, Mr. Main. Virginia. Then the North."

"That's a long, dangerous journey, especially for women in war-time." He nearly said black women.

"What's waiting is worth the risk. We were just ready to start when Aunt Belle broke her leg. She needs doctoring and a safe place to rest and heal."

To the midwife, Orry said, "Your house isn't safe any longer?"

Jane answered; her presumption rather annoyed him. "A week ago Friday, two strangers tried to break in. Colored men. There are a lot of them wandering the back roads. I drove them off with Aunt Belle's old hunting musket, but it was scary. Yesterday, when she had the accident, I decided we should find another place."

Aunt Belle said to Madeline, "I told Jane you were a good Christian person. I told her I thought you'd take us in for a while. We have all our goods in the wagon, but they don't amount to much. Neither of my husbands left me with anything but good and bad memories."

Orry and his wife questioned one another with their eyes; each knew the problems the appeal presented. Since Orry was leaving, Madeline decided she must be the one to resolve them. "We'll surely help you all we can. Darling, would you find Andy, so he can take them to the cabins?" Orry seemed to understand that she had another purpose in asking; he nodded and walked off, leaving her free to speak.

"Aunt Belle, my husband is going to Richmond in the morning.

He's going into the army. I'll be in charge here until I join him. I'm only too glad to give you refuge, with one reservation. Right or wrong, the people at Mont Royal aren't free to go north, as you plan to do. They might resent you or cause trouble for me."

"Ma'am?" Jane said, to get her attention. Madeline turned. "There is no right in slavery, only wrong."

Madeline's reply had sharpness. "Even if I agree with you, the practical solution is another matter."

Jane reflected on that with a visible defiance Madeline admired yet couldn't tolerate. At last Jane uttered a small sigh. "I don't think we can stay, Aunt Belle."

"Think once more. This lady is decent. You be the same. Don't butt in like a billy goat. Bend."

Jane hesitated. Aunt Belle glared. The younger girl said, "Would an arrangement like this be agreeable, Mrs. Main? I'll work for you to earn our keep. I won't tell any of your people where we're going or do anything to stir them up. As soon as Aunt Belle can travel, we'll pack and go."

"That's fair," Madeline said.

"Jane keeps her word," Aunt Belle said.

"Yes, she impresses me that way." Eyes on the girl, Madeline nodded as she spoke. Neither woman smiled, but in that moment, liking began. "Our new overseer may not care for the arrangement, but I believe he'll accept —"

Voices in the dusk interrupted her. Orry and the head driver stepped into the orange halo of the lantern beside the kitchen door. "I've explained matters to Andy," Orry said. "There's an empty cabin available. That is —" The pause asked a question.

"Yes, we've worked out the details," Madeline told him. "Andy, this is Aunt Belle Nin and her niece, Jane." She described the bargain she had struck with them.

"All right," Andy said. Taken with the girl, the young driver smiled in his friendliest way. Madeline felt sorry for him. The girl was in love with an idea.

"Mr. Orry says you have a wagon," Andy continued. "I'll drive you to the cabin."

"Pick up some barbecue in the kitchen," Orry said. "You two are probably hungry."

"Starved," the tiny octoroon said. "I don't know you, Mr. Main, but you're beginning to sound like a good Christian person, too."

As the wagon proceeded slowly to the slave community, Andy peeked over his shoulder at Jane. When he had first approached the kitchen porch and saw her there, gathering and reflecting the orange light, he had caught his breath in wonder. He had never set eyes on anyone more beautiful.

He worked up courage to say, "You speak mighty well, Miss Jane. Can you read?"

"And write," she replied from the wagon bed, where she sat with Aunt Belle's legs resting on top of hers. "I can cipher, too. A year before Mrs. Milsom died, she knew she was going and started to teach me."

"That was against the law."

"She said the devil with the law. She was a feisty old lady. She said I had to be ready to make my way alone." The mule plodded; the axle creaked. "Can you read and write?"

"No." Then, desperate to make a good impression, he blurted, "I'd like to know how, though. Yes, indeed. A man can't better himself unless he has learning."

"And a man can't better himself when he's the property of —" Aunt Belle whacked her niece's wrist with her fingers. Jane looked chastened as she finished, "I'd be happy to give you lessons, but I couldn't do it without asking Mrs. Main's permission."

"Maybe we could do that sometime."

"Let's eat first," Aunt Belle said irritably. "Let's remember who needs attention here, is that all right?"

"Just fine," Andy said, jubilant.

The wagon rolled into the lane between the slave cottages. At the gnarled base of a mammoth live oak rising between two of them, Cuffey sat with his spine against the bark, a twig in his teeth, and his right hand down between his legs, scratching lazily. Spying the unfamiliar girl in the wagon, he sat up. He had heard nothing about purchase of any new slaves. Who was she? He surely wanted to find out.

Giving a nasty glance at Andy, who paid no attention, Cuffey watched the wagon pass. His eyes returned to the lush line of the girl's bosom, and his hand grew busier in his crotch.

In bed, naked beneath a comforter, Orry said, "I liked that little nigra girl. Peppery; just like the old woman. But I have a feeling you can trust her to keep her word."

"I wouldn't have let her stay otherwise," Madeline touched him. "Everything will be fine. Let's not spend your last night worrying that it won't."

"Lord, I'm going to miss you these next two or three months."

"Show me how much."

In the morning, in a hat and frock coat and cravat suitable for a funeral, Orry kissed his vaguely smiling mother. "Thank you for visiting, sir. Do come again, won't you?" she said.

As he kissed his wife she held him fiercely, whispering: "God keep you safe, dearest. One day when I was small, a moment came when I suddenly understood the meaning of the word death. I started crying and ran to my father. He took me in his arms and said I shouldn't let it frighten me too much, because we all shared the predicament. He said it eased the mind and heart to remember we are all dying of life. It took me years to understand and believe him. I do, but — I don't want it to happen to you any sooner than necessary. Life's become too sweet."

"Don't worry," he reassured her. "We'll be together before long. And I don't think anyone fires at officers who sit behind desks."

He kissed and embraced her once more and went away down the lane, with Aristotle driving.

41

Certain American civilians remembered that two of the chief destroyers of the British Army in the Crimea were dirt and disease. Not long after Sumter fell, these civilians decided to prevent, if they could, a repetition in the Union encampments of those mistakes of half a dozen years ago and half a world away.

As soon as the plan became public, army surgeons began to scoff and call the civilians meddling amateurs. So did most government officials. The civilians persisted, forming the United States Sanitary Commission. By midsummer, the organization had a chief executive, Frederick Law Olmsted, the man who had designed New York City's Central Park in 1856 and described slavery in unfavorable terms in a widely read travel memoir.

Lincoln and the War Department didn't want to sanction the commission but were forced to do so because important people were connected with it, including Mr. Bache, a grandson of Ben Franklin, and Samuel Gridley Howe, the famous Boston doctor and humanitarian. Even after official recognition, members didn't forgive the President for saying they were a fifth wheel on the coach.

Whether the nay-sayers liked it or not, the commission intended to supply soldiers with items they lacked and to police the camps and hospitals to keep them clean. Some of the opposition to this work softened after Bull Run; sixteen commission wagons had driven there to bring out wounded when most of the Union soldiers were fleeing the other way.

The commission recruited and united great masses of women all across the North, giving focus and direction to volunteer work that had been largely individual during the early weeks of the war. In Lehigh Station, as elsewhere, ladies organized the first of many Sanitary Fairs to raise money and gather goods for the organization.

While Scipio Brown was bringing the rest of his waifs to the newly expanded building and settling them in with a Hungarian couple hired to supervise the place, Constance was busy planning a Sanitary Fair for the second Friday and Saturday in November. The site was Hazard's shipping and receiving warehouse down by the railroad tracks beside the canal.

Wotherspoon kept crews working two days and nights to clear the building by loading huge shipments of iron plate onto a series of special trains. Virgilia helped as a committee member and so did Brett, who justified it on two grounds: her husband was a Union officer and, even if he weren't, humanitarian concerns in this case outweighed partisan ones. The ultimate aim of the fair and the commission was the saving of lives. Brett's real problem in connection with the fair was working with Virgilia. It was difficult.

From the first hour, the fair was a success, drawing huge crowds from the valley. Great loops of patriotic bunting decorated the walls and rafters of the warehouse. The most popular display featured posed photographs of some of the brave boys of Colonel Tilghman Good's Forty-seventh Pennsylvania Volunteers, the valley's own regiment, together with a greatly enlarged newspaper likeness of General McClellan. The sketch artist for the local paper exhibited satiric portraits of Slidell and Mason, the reb commissioners to Europe who had been dragged off the British mail packet Trent early in the month; the pair was presently imprisoned in Boston, which outraged the Queen's government and provoked threats from Lord Lyons, British minister in Washington.

There were military exhibits — stacked arms, contents of a typical haversack, an authentic canteen authentically pierced by a ball — and booths for collection of food, reading material, and clothing. Virgilia manned the clothing booth. A committee member had somehow obtained a regulation army tunic of dark blue shoddy, from which small squares had been cut. Every fifteen minutes, Virgilia would gather a crowd, then conduct her demonstration. Holding a square of shoddy over a bowl, she poured water on the material. The shoddy disintegrated into little pellets, which she distributed to the outraged spectators, coupling this with a request for decent clothing to be deposited in the barrels provided.

The work excited her; she was striking a small but useful blow against the South. She also felt quite pleased with her appearance. Constance had loaned her a shawl and Brett a cameo brooch to pin it at the bosom of her dark brown dress. She had done her hair in a silk net and put on teardrop earrings of iridescent opal, also borrowed. Because of her speaking skills, polished by appearances at abolitionist rallies, she was by far the best demonstrator in the hall. She earned a compliment from her sector chairman and a more important one from a man she didn't know.

He was a major from the Forty-seventh. While Virgilia tore the shoddy apart verbally and literally, he watched from across the aisle, in front of the cologne booth; soldiers were begging for perfume to defend against the stench of camp sinks and open drains.

The officer studied Virgilia during the demonstration. She lost her train of thought and faltered when his eye dropped from her face to her breasts, then shifted back. He left supporting the arm of a woman, perhaps his wife, but those few moments in which he looked at Virgilia were immensely important to her.

Always before, feeling and looking ugly, she had never appealed to any men except outcasts, like poor Grady. But there had been a sea change, and the major of volunteers had found her, if not beautiful, at least worthy of notice. The profundity of the change couldn't be denied; realizing it left her euphoric.

Virgilia experienced a letdown following the final day of the fair. She roved the house and town, knowing she must leave, must find a direction for herself. The days passed, and still she couldn't.

Nearly two weeks after the fair, Constance brought a letter to the dinner table. "It's from Dr. Howe, of the Sanitary Commission. He's an old friend."

"Is he? From where?" Virgilia asked.

"Newport. He and his wife summered there when we did. Don't you remember?" Virgilia shook her head and bent to her plate; she had managed to forget almost everything about those years.

Brett spoke. "Does the doctor say anything about the fair?"

"Indeed he does. He says ours was one of the most successful thus far. At a dinner party, he reported the fact to Miss Dix herself — here, read it." She passed the letter to Brett, seated on her right.

Brett scanned the letter, then murmured, "Miss Dix. Is she the New England woman I've read about? The one who's worked so hard for reform of the asylums?"

Constance nodded. "You probably saw the long piece about her in Leslie's. She's very famous and very dedicated. The article said Florence Nightingale inspired her to go to Washington when war broke out. Miss Nightingale landed at Scutari, in the Crimea, with thirty-seven Englishwomen, and they saved scores of lives that might have been lost otherwise. Miss Dix has been superintendent of army nurses since the summer."

Virgilia looked up. "They are using women as nurses?"

"At least a hundred," Brett replied. "Billy told me. The women get a salary, a living allowance, transportation — and the privilege of bathing soldiers, most of whom are pretty unenthusiastic about the idea, Billy said."

"I understand the surgeons are violently opposed to the nurses," Constance added. "But that's a doctor for you — guarding his little scrap of territory like a dog." She hadn't missed Virgilia's sudden animation. She turned to her. "Would nursing work interest you?"

"I think it might — though I don't suppose I'd qualify."

Constance considered it a kindness to withhold certain details from the piece in Leslie's. Miss Dix required no medical or scientific training from her recruits; all she asked was that they be over thirty and not attractive. So Constance could truthfully say, "I disagree. You'd be perfect. Would you like me to write Dr. Howe for a letter of introduction?"

"Yes." Then, more strongly, "Yes, please."

That night, Virgilia was sleepless with excitement. Perhaps she had found a way to serve the Union cause and strike at those responsible for the death of her lover. When she finally closed her eyes, she dreamed lurid dreams.

Grady's grave opened. He rose from it, bits of earth falling from his eyes and nose and mouth as he held out his hand, pleading for someone to avenge him.

The picture blurred, replaced by an unfamiliar plantation where dreamy black figures bucked up and down, impregnating moaning colored girls to beget more human chattels.

Then, a long row of men in gray; she watched each being shot, shot again, shot a third and fourth time, blood spatters multiplying on the breasts of their tunics while one man in Union blue fired endlessly. She knew the slayer. She had nursed him in a field hospital till he was once more fit for duty.

She awoke sweating and excited.

In the note included with his letter of introduction, Dr. Howe offered two pieces of advice: Virgilia should not dress too elaborately for her interview with Miss Dix, and although the superintendent of nurses would be quick to detect raw flattery, a discreet bit of praise for Conversations on Common Things would not be out of order. Miss Dix's little book of household advice had sold steadily ever since its publication in 1824. It was in its sixtieth printing; the author was proud of her child.

Virgilia reached Washington during an early December warm spell. When she stepped down to the sunlit train platform, she wrinkled her nose at the odor arising from eight pine crates on a baggage wagon. Water stained the wood, seeped from the joints, and splashed on the platform. She asked a baggage man what the boxes contained.

"Soldiers. Weather like this, the ice don't hold."

"Has there been a battle?"

"Not any big ones that I know about. These boys likely died of the flux or something similar. You hang around a while, you'll see hundreds of them boxes."

Swallowing back something in her throat, Virgilia moved away, carrying her own portmanteau. No wonder the commission considered its work so necessary.

At ten the next morning, she entered the office of Dorothea Dix. Miss Dix, a spinster of sixty, was neat and orderly in her dress, her gestures, and her speech. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hazard. You have a brother in Secretary Cameron's department, do you not?"

"Two of them, actually. The second is a commissioned officer working for General Ripley. And my youngest brother is with the engineers in Virginia. It was his wife who recommended your book, which I thoroughly enjoyed." She prayed Miss Dix wouldn't ask a question about the contents, since she hadn't bothered to buy or borrow a copy.

"I am happy to hear it. Will you see your brothers during your stay in the city?"

"Oh, naturally. We're very close." Did it sound too exaggerated, making the lie apparent? "It's my hope that my stay will be permanent. I would like to be a nurse, though I'm afraid I have no formal training."

"Any intelligent female can quickly learn the technical aspects. What she cannot acquire, if she does not already possess it, is the one trait I consider indispensable."

Miss Dix folded her hands and regarded Virgilia with gray-blue eyes whose sternness seemed at odds with the femininity of her long neck and her soft voice.

"Yes?" Virgilia prompted.

"Fortitude. The women in my nurse corps confront filth, gore, depravity, and crudity that good breeding forbids me to describe. My nurses are subjected to hostility from patients and also from the doctors, who are, in theory, our allies. I have definite ideas about the work we do and how it must be done. I tolerate no disagreement — a characteristic that further alienates certain politicians and surgeons. Those are challenges we face. Yet the greatest one remains the challenge to human courage. What you will do if you join us, Miss Hazard, is what I have done for many years, because someone must. You will not merely look into hell; you will walk there."

Virgilia breathed with soft sibilance, trying to conceal the sensual excitement seizing her again. In blinding visions that hid Miss Dix, windrows of young men in cadet gray fell bleeding and screaming. Grady grinned at the spectacle, showing the fine artificial teeth she had bought to replace the ones pulled out to mark him as a slave —

"Miss Hazard?"

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me. A momentary dizziness."

A frown. "Do you have such spells frequently?"

"Oh, no — no! It's the heat."

"Yes, it is excessive for December. How do you respond to what I told you?"

Virgilia dabbed her upper lip with her handkerchief. The bright light through the windows showed the scars on her cheeks; she had worn no powder. "I was active in abolitionist work, Miss Dix. As a consequence, I often saw —" she forced more strength into her voice — "the ravaged bodies of escaped slaves who had been whipped or burned by their masters. I saw scars, hideous disfigurement. I bore it. I can bear the rigors of nursing."

At long last the woman from Boston smiled at the visitor. "I admire your certainty. It is a good sign. Your appearance is suitable and Dr. Howe's recommendation enthusiastic. Shall we turn to particulars of your compensation and living arrangements?"

42

Lieutenant Colonel Orry Main's first forty-eight hours in Richmond were frantic. He found temporary quarters in a boarding-house, signed papers, took the oath, bought his uniforms, and presented himself to Colonel Bledsoe, in charge of operations at the War Department offices, on the Ninth Street side of Capitol Square.

A clerk named Jones, a Marylander with a sour, secretive air, showed Orry his desk behind one of the flimsy partitions that divided the office. Next day Secretary Benjamin received him. The plump little man had replaced Walker, the blunt-spoken Alabama lawyer blamed for the failure to capitalize on the Manassas victory, as well as for recent military inaction.

"Delighted you're with us at last, Colonel Main." The secretary exuded camaraderie, except in his unreadable eyes. "I understand we're dining together Saturday night."

Orry expressed surprise. Benjamin said, "The invitation is probably at your lodgings now. Angela Mallory sets a superb table, and the secretary's juleps are renowned. Mr. Mallory is full of praise for the work your brother and Bulloch are doing in Liverpool — ah, but I imagine you are more interested in hearing about your own duties."

"Yes, sir."

"The spot you're to fill has been empty too long. It is a job both necessary and, I regret to say, difficult, because it requires contact with a person of odious disposition. Does the name Winder mean anything?"

Orry thought a bit. "At West Point, they used to talk about General William Winder. He lost the battle of Bladensburg in — 1814, was it?" Benjamin nodded. "Now it's coming back. Winder fought from a superior position with superior forces, but the British whipped him anyway, then marched unopposed to Washington and burned it. Later, I understand, they named a building after him when they rebuilt the town, but professionals always cite him as one of the bunglers who prompted reform in the army by means of reform at West Point. I suppose you could say Sylvanus Thayer was appointed because of him."

"It is Winder's son to whom I refer. He was a tactical officer at West Point for a period."

"That I didn't know."

With noticeable care in selection of his words, Benjamin continued, "He was, in fact, an instructor when President Davis attended the institution. Thus, when Major Winder came here from Maryland earlier this year, the President had good memories of him. Winder was appointed brigadier general and provost marshal. His offices are close by. I will try to prepare you by explaining that Winder is nominally charged with apprehending military criminals and aliens. In other words, he's a glorified policeman — which in itself would not be a problem were he not also one of those persons in whom advancing age induces inflexibility. Finally, and regrettably, he is a martinet. Yet, in spite of it all, he enjoys the President's favor." Benjamin gave him a level look. "For the time being."

Orry nodded to signify understanding. He now had a clue as to why the word difficult had been used to describe his new duties.

Benjamin told him that the provost marshal had recruited a number of men listed on his personnel roster as professional detectives. "I characterize them as plug-uglies. Imported ones at that. Yankee scum who neither understand nor behave like Southerners. They appear more suited for ejecting hooligans from saloons and ten-pin alleys than for careful detective work. But, as I indicated, they are responsible for investigation of military as well as civil wrongdoing. Because of the general's, ah, character, they tend to exceed their authority. However, regardless of the nature of the case or the severity of the offense, I will not have them acting against the best interest of the army. I will not have them usurping the powers of this department. When they try, we curb them. Of course someone must be in charge of that effort.

The last man was not up to the responsibility. Hence my pleasure at your arrival."

Again, that direct stare. Orry, not a little intimidated by what was in store for him, got a shock when Benjamin revealed something else.

"Also, I regret to say, Winder is assuming authority for local prisons. If he does not enforce humane standards of treatment for captives, it could hurt us in the diplomatic sphere, especially with European recognition still in doubt. In short, Colonel, there are any number of ways the general can harm the Confederacy, and we must prevent him from doing so."

It struck Orry that the secretary was reaching into questionable areas; he was responsible for military, not foreign, policy, yet his treatment of Winder was designed to affect both. Benjamin must have seen the doubt on Orry's face. He leaned back and continued.

"You will discover that lines of authority in this government are not clear. The government, in fact, often resembles a maze at an English country house: difficult to picture in total and difficult to negotiate because there are so many passages that cross and look alike. You let me worry about interdepartmental problems; you deal with the general."

"The secretary will permit me to observe that General Winder out-ranks me."

"So he does — until such time as he presents a direct threat to the welfare of this department. Then we shall see who ranks whom." Benjamin brought his chair forward and gave Orry a look that revealed the iron beneath the silk. "I'm confident you will handle your duties with tact and skill, Colonel."

Not a hope, that; an order.

Next morning Orry paid his courtesy call on the provost marshal, whose office was an ugly frame building on Broad Street near Capitol Square. The moment Orry entered, negative impressions began to accumulate. A couple of Winder's plug-uglies, civilians wearing muddy boots and slouch hats, lounged on benches and stared at him as he approached the clerks. Orry didn't miss the huge revolvers worn by the detectives.

He had trouble gaining the attention of the clerks. They were engaged in loud argument and swearing at each other. He rapped on the railing separating the benches from the work area. The clerks ceased their shouting. With odors of beer and overflowing spittoons swirling around him, Orry stated his business.

Brigadier General John Henry Winder kept him waiting one hour. When Orry was finally admitted, he saw a stout officer who looked much older than sixty. Pure white hair jutted from his head in tufts that appeared to have gone uncombed, untrimmed, and unwashed for some time. Winder's skin was flaking from dryness, and the permanent inverted U of his mouth showed he didn't make smiling a habit.

Orry strove to introduce himself pleasantly and stated his hope for a good working relationship. The provost wasn't interested.

"I know your boss is a friend of Davis, but so am I. We'll get along all right if you follow two rules: don't get in my way and don't question my authority."

Less friendly, Orry said, "I believe the secretary also has rules, General. In matters that affect the army in any way, I am instructed to make sure proper procedure is fol —"

"Hell with procedure. This is war. There are enemies all over Richmond." Eyes like those of some ancient turtle fixed on Orry. "In uniform and out. I shall uproot them and not care a damn about procedure. I'm busy. You're dismissed."

"Your servant, General." He saluted, but Winder had already bent over a file and didn't acknowledge it. Red-faced, Orry stalked out.

Work had emptied the department offices of everyone except a few clerks, Jones among them. Orry described his meeting, and Jones sneered. "Typical behavior. There isn't a man in the government I detest more. You'll soon feel the same way."

"Damned if I don't already."

Jones sniggered and returned to writing in some kind of journal. Sometime later, Orry saw Jones return the book to a lower desk drawer with a surreptitious look around. Does he keep a diary? Better watch what I say in front of that fellow.

Still reacting to Winder, he felt in need of a drink when the day ended and he started home through the December dark. He stopped at a rowdy, cheerful place called Mrs. Muller's Lager Beer Saloon. With a schooner in front of him, he leafed through the Examiner, which was once again excoriating the Davis administration, this time for the state of the South's rail system. The paper denounced it as incapable of moving large numbers of troops between the east and the Kentucky-Tennessee theater.

The complaint was not an unfamiliar one. Orry knew the South's rolling stock was old and many sections of rail worn out — and there was no manufactory in the South capable of replacing either. It was Cooper Main's decade-old warning about the inadequacy of Southern industry coming true. Davis's journalistic foes were now saying it might doom the war.

He finished his beer and with a touch of guilt called for another. He wanted to forget the work Benjamin had given him. Here he was, a trained soldier, assigned to spy on another soldier. He supposed he had accepted the possibility of rotten duty when he took the commission. There was nothing to be done except carry out orders.

The longer he stayed at the crowded bar, the more depressed he became. He overheard conversations full of gloom and invective. Davis was a "damned dictator," Judah Benjamin a "pet of the tyrant," the war "fool's business." No doubt many of these same men had cheered the news of the bombardment of Sumter, Orry thought as he left.

A more positive air pervaded the Saturday-night dinner party at the home of Navy Secretary Stephen Mallory. A Floridian born of Yankee parents, Mallory had the good luck — or the misfortune, depending on how you looked at it — to head a department that Jefferson Davis ignored almost completely. The secretary quickly made his strong views known to his guest.

"I never regarded secession as anything but a synonym for revolution. But now that we're fighting, I intend to extend myself and my department to beat the enemy, not win his approval or his recognition of our right to exist as a nation. On that and many other matters, the Chief Executive and I differ. Another julep, Colonel?"

Orry's head was already whirling from the first one and from the glitter of the gathering. The brightest jewel was Mallory's Spanish wife, Angela, a gracious and gorgeous woman. She praised Cooper — she kept track of navy matters — and introduced Orry to her little girls before bundling them away to bed.

During the superb meal there was much toasting of the Confederacy, and especially, its imprisoned representatives, Mason and Slidell, both favorites of the archsecessionist faction. So was Benjamin, Orry discovered after some table conversation. Orry admired the sleek little man's aplomb but wondered about the sincerity of his convictions; he struck Orry as more of a survivor than a zealot. Still, the secretary brought wit and jollity to the gathering. The table was so amply supplied with fine food and drink and china and crystal that Orry had trouble remembering it was wartime. For a very short while he even forgot how much he missed Madeline.

As the party broke up, Benjamin invited him to come along to one of his favorite haunts: "Johnny Worsham's. I like to go against his faro bank. Johnny runs a fine place. A man can find the sporting crowd there and test himself against lady luck, but he can also be sure of discretion about his presence and an honest deal."

Benjamin said he liked a vigorous stroll in the night air, and Orry didn't object. The secretary sent his driver ahead to Worsham's; Orry had come to Mallory's in a hack. They set out and were just passing the Spotswood when they encountered some noisy people leaving another party. Someone accidentally bumped Orry.

"Ashton!"

Because he was startled, his exclamation sounded friendlier than it might have otherwise. His sister clung to the arm of her porcine husband and gave him a smile with all the warmth of a January freeze. "Dear Orry! I heard you were in town — married, too. Is Madeline here?"

"No, but she'll join me soon."

"How splendid you look in your uniform." Ashton's smile for the secretary was noticeably warmer. "Is he working for you, Judah?"

"I am happy to say he is."

"How fortunate you are. Orry, my dear, we must take supper when all of us can find time. James and I are positively dizzy with the social whirl. Some weeks we scarcely have five minutes to ourselves."

"Quite right," Huntoon said. His glasses steamed in the cold; the two words were his contribution to the conversation. Ashton waved and flirted with her eyes at Benjamin as her husband helped her into their carriage.

"Attractive young woman," Benjamin murmured as they moved on. "I was charmed the moment we met. It's pleasant for you to have a sister in Richmond."

No point hiding what would eventually be public knowledge. "We are not on good terms, I'm afraid."

"Pity," said Benjamin, with a smile of condolence that was small, perfect, and hollow. I am sailing with a master navigator of the political seas, Orry thought. He knew he would never hear from Ashton about supper. That suited him perfectly.

"Ashton?"

"No."

Turning away from his hand and his pleading whine, she moved her pillow to the edge of the bed, as far from him as possible. She puffed the pillow and buried her left cheek in it. Just as delicious thoughts of Powell stole into her head, he bothered her again.

"Quite a surprise, seeing your brother."

"An unpleasant one."

"Do you really plan for the three of us to dine together?"

"After he banished me from the home where I was raised?" A contemptuous monosyllable answered the question. "I wish you'd be quiet. I'm worn out."

Worn out with him, anyway. Of Powell she could never get enough — not enough of his skilled lovemaking or his decidedly unconventional personality, which she was beginning to discover and appreciate.

Ashton saw Powell at least once a week, twice if Huntoon's schedule worked in her favor. The assignations took place on Church Hill. Although there was still risk in going to his front doorstep, she preferred it to sneaking in through the back garden. In fact, she rather liked the danger of arriving on Franklin Street in the daylight; once inside, she was completely safe, which wouldn't have been true at some tawdry rooming house.

James never questioned her about the dalliance. He didn't even know about her mysterious absences from their house. He was too stupid, too preoccupied with his petty tasks at the Treasury Department, which kept him working till eight or nine every night.

Powell not only fulfilled Ashton with his occasionally cruel lovemaking, he also fascinated her as a person. He was a hot patriot, yet ruthless in his devotion to his own cause. There was no paradox. He loved the Confederacy but hated "King Jeff." He believed in secession but not in this secessionist government. He intended to survive the doomed war and prosper.

"I have a year or so to do it. Davis will blunder along unchecked for some time yet. Our cause is just — we should and we could win. With the right man leading us, I could become a prince of a new kingdom. Under present circumstances and the present dictator, I'm afraid all I can become is rich."

A patriot, a speculator, an incomparable lover — she had never met a man quite as complex, and surely never would again. By comparison, Huntoon suffered even more than he had in times past.

No matter. The marriage, frail from the beginning, had now perished. The past few months had convinced Ashton that Huntoon couldn't provide social or financial advancement because he lacked the slyness, the nerve, and the brains. In that one short argument with Davis, he had fashioned his own noose and sprung the trap. Weekly, her loathing grew, as did her certainty that she was in love with Lamar Powell.

In love. How strange to realize the familiar words could apply to her. She had experienced the same emotion only once before. Then Billy Hazard had rejected her in favor of Brett, starting the chain of events that ended with her damned brother banishing her from Mont Royal.

Ashton doubted that Powell loved her. She judged him incapable of loving anyone except himself. It didn't concern her. She had enough to give for both of —

"Ashton?"

Her back was still to her husband. She snarled a vile word and pounded her fist on the pillow. Why wouldn't he leave her alone? "What is it?"

A soft, repulsive hand crept over her shoulder. "Why are you so cold to me? It's been weeks since I was permitted my marital rights."

God, even when he whined of love he sounded like a lawyer. He was going to pay for disturbing her. She rolled away, tossing her hair, found a match and struck it. She jerked the chimney from the bedside lamp, lit the wick, and slammed the chimney back. Braced on her elbows, she pulled her nightdress above her hips.

"All right, come on."

"Wh — what?"

"Get that smelly nightshirt off and take what you want while you can." The lamp set small fires in her eyes. She bent her knees, spread them, clenched her teeth. "Come on."

He struggled with the long flannel garment, his voice muffled inside. "I'm not sure I can perform on command —" As he dropped the shirt beside the bed, exposing his white body, she saw he was right. Huntoon looked ready to cry. Ashton laughed at him.

"You never can. Even if that scrawny thing does show a little life, it's no better than a thimble inside me. How did you ever expect to keep a wife content? You're pathetic."

And she snapped her legs together, jerked her nightdress down, seized the lamp, and left the bedroom.

Huntoon listened to her marching downstairs. "You mean bitch," he shouted, momentarily not caring whether Homer or any of the other house people heard him. Serve her right if they did.

The anger wilted as quickly as the slight stiffness, all he had been able to manage while she yelled at him. Her cruelty did something more than hurt him. It confirmed a suspicion that had been with him for some days. There was another man.

Huntoon flung himself back in bed and put his forearm over his eyes. Everything in Richmond was awry. He was trapped in menial work for a government he had first distrusted and now despised. He felt the same about Davis, whose foes no longer formed a company or a regiment, but a small army. Important men: Vice President Stephens; Joe Johnston; Vance of North Carolina and Brown of Georgia, governors who said Davis was usurping their powers; Toombs, the former secretary of state, to whom Davis had been forced to hand over a brigadier's commission to stop his scathing attacks.

The President dictated to the army and truckled to the Virginia clique, as if that were the only way to make his shabby pedigree acceptable. He was botching the war, mismanaging the nation, and — an easy extension in a distraught mind — thwarting Huntoon's ambition, thereby causing the rift with Ashton.

For an hour, he lay imagining her naked with another man. Some officer perhaps? That wily little Jew with his cabinet post and his fine manners? Or could it be a man like that sleek, patently untrustworthy Georgian, Powell? Dry-mouthed, Huntoon pictured his wife coupling with various suspects. He wanted to know the man's identity. He would confront her; demand that she give him the name of —

He stopped thinking that way. He couldn't do it. Knowing would probably kill him.

When two hours had gone by, he heaved himself out of bed, donned his robe, and went downstairs. The house had grown cold. His breath plumed visibly against the glow of a lamp in the parlor. He stepped into the doorway.

"Ashton? I came to apologize for —"

The sentence trailed away. He grimaced. She breathed lightly and evenly, curled in a large leather chair, fast asleep. Her legs were drawn up near her bosom and her arms clasped around them. On her face a smile of dreams, sensually contented.

He turned and stumbled toward the staircase, his ears ringing, that smile acid-etched on his memory. Tears came. He hated her but knew he was powerless to do anything about it, which only worsened the feeling. He climbed the stairs like an old man as the hall clock tolled three.

43

At Belvedere, Brett continued to fight her own daily war with loneliness.

One consolation: Billy's letters sounded more cheerful. His old unit, Engineer Company A, had returned to Washington and was quartered on the grounds of the federal arsenal along with two of the three new volunteer companies congressionally approved in August — B from Maine and C from Massachusetts.

Billy still maintained a starchy pride in belonging to "the old company." But he wrote that most of the regulars accepted the new recruits and were attempting to make them overnight experts in every skill from pontoniering to road building.

The newly constituted Battalion of Engineers incorporated the old cadre of corps regulars, and was now attached to McClellan's Army of the Potomac and commanded by Captain James Duane, '48, an officer Billy respected. In order to stay with the battalion, Billy's friend Lije Farmer had been required to resign as captain of volunteers and take a regular army commission as a first lieutenant. Oldest one in the Potomac Army, he claims, but he is content, and I am glad he's with us.

Brett was happy her husband was back where he wanted to be. With winter bringing military hibernation, she hoped he would be relatively inactive and thus out of danger for several months. She wondered about chances for a leave. She missed him so; there was many a night when she slept only an hour or two.

She helped around the house as much as she could, but that still left great stretches of empty time. Constance had gone back to Washington to be with George. The strange, ill-tempered colored man, Brown, was there, too, gathering more strays. Virgilia had won a place among Miss Dix's nurses and wouldn't be returning. Brett was by herself, moody and lonesome.

One steel-colored December day, she bundled up, walked to the gate of Hazard's, then up the hill to Brown's building. She found two of the children, a boy and a girl, studying at a board with Mr. Czorna, the Hungarian. His wife was stirring soup at the stove. Brett greeted each of them.

"Morning, madam," the gray-haired woman replied, deferential but not especially friendly. Each had an accent: Mrs. Czorna's heavily European, Brett's heavily Southern. Brett knew the couple didn't trust her — not exactly a novelty in Lehigh Station.

She started to say something else but noticed a child in the adjoining room. Sitting on a cot beside the partition dividing the area, the little coppery girl stared at her hands with her head bowed.

"Is the child ill, Mrs. Czorna?"

"Not sick, not that kind of ill. Before he go, Mr. Brown bought her a turtle in a store. Two nights ago, when we had the snow, the turtle crawled out the window and froze. She won't let me take it and bury it. She won't eat, she won't speak or laugh — I miss her laugh. It warms this place. I don't know what to do."

Touched by the sight of the forlorn figure in the other room, Brett followed her impulse and spoke. "May I try something?"

"Go ahead." The statement, the shrug, said a Carolina plantation girl didn't seem the right person to deal with a runaway black child. It was a familiar canard.

"Her name's Rosalie, isn't it?"

"That's right."

Brett walked to the dormitory and sat down beside the little girl, who didn't move. In the open palm at which the child was staring lay the dead turtle, on its back — not smelling good at all.

"Rosalie? May I take your turtle and give him a warm place to rest?"

The child stared at Brett, nothing in her eyes. She shook her head.

"Please let me, Rosalie. He deserves to be warm and snug while he sleeps. It's cold in here. Can't you feel it? Come help me outside. Then we'll go to my house for some cookies and cocoa. You can see the big mama cat who had kittens last week."

She folded her hands, waiting. The child stared at her. Slowly, Brett reached out to grasp the turtle. Rosalie glanced down but didn't say or do anything. After Brett found the child's coat, she asked Mrs. Czorna for a large spoon, and they went out behind the whitewashed building. Brett knelt and used the spoon to chisel a hole in the wintry ground. She wrapped the turtle in a clean rag, laid him away, and replaced the soil carefully. She looked up to see Rosalie crying, emotion shaking loose at last in silent heaving sobs, then audible ones.

"Oh, you poor child. Come here."

She stretched out her arms. The little girl ran to her. While the sharp wind blew, Brett held the trembling body. She stroked Rosalie's hair and, with a small start, made a discovery. In her years of helping on the plantation, she had picked up bundled black babies or held the hands of older children many a time, yet always stopped shy of the ultimate giving — an embrace.

Had she been guided by some unexpressed belief that Negroes were somehow unfit for a white woman to touch? She didn't know, but this moment in the gray morning jarred her to awareness. Rosalie felt no different from any other child hurting.

Brett hugged her tight and felt the little girl's hands slip around her neck and then the cold wetness of her cheek pressing hers for warmth.

44

Aunt Belle Nin died on the tenth of October. She had been sinking for days, the victim of what the Mains' doctor termed a poison in the blood. She was alert to the end, smoking a cob pipe that Jane packed for her and commenting on dreams that had shown her scenes of the afterlife. "I don't feel bad about going, except for one reason," she said through the smoke. "I'll probably meet my two husbands on the other side, and I could do without that. I'm leaving a better world than I was born into — the light of the day of jubilo will be breaking next year or soon after. I know it in my heart."

"So do I," said Jane. They had agreed for a long time that if war came, the South would fail and fall. Now freedom was a scent on the wind, like that of rain before a heat spell broke. Aunt Belle took several more puffs, smiled at her niece, handed her the pipe, and closed her eyes.

Madeline readily consented that Aunt Belle be buried at Mont Royal the next day — the same day a fire swept Charleston. There was scorched earth for blocks, six hundred buildings lost, billions of dollars' worth of property. Black arsonists were blamed. The news reached Mont Royal the evening after the funeral; a courier galloping to the Ashley plantation warned of possible uprising.

While the courier was speaking to Madeline and Meek, Jane was walking alone in the cool moonlight by the river. A creak of boards at the head of the dock alarmed her. Cuffey was always watching her these days, and the moment she turned and saw the dark, threatening silhouette of a man, she thought he had followed her. She stood motionless, filled with fear.

"Just me, Miss Jane."

"Oh, Andy. Hello." She relaxed, pulling at her shawl. The early winter moon lit his face as he turned his head slightly, approaching in a cautious, shy way.

"Wanted to say how much your aunt's passing grieved me. Didn't think it was my place to speak to you at the burial."

"Thank you, Andy." To her surprise, Jane found herself gazing at him slightly longer than politeness dictated. She had recently grown much more aware of him.

"Like to sit down a minute? Visit?" he asked. "Don't get much of a chance to see you, working all day —"

"Aren't you chilly? You have nothing but that shirt."

"Oh, I'm fine." He smiled. "Perfect. Here, let me help you —"

He grasped her hand so she wouldn't fall as she sat on the edge of the dock. A fish leaped, scattering liquid moonlight When it struck him that he had been forward when he touched her, a look of mortification appeared on his face. That made her think all the more of him.

Truthfully, Jane was as nervous as he was. She had never had much contact with boys in Rock Hill. Too independent, for one thing. Too scared, for another. She was a virgin and had been sternly advised by Widow Milsom to keep herself in that state until she found a man she loved, trusted, and wanted to marry. She knew she was attractive, or anyway not ugly. But none of the gentlemen around Rock Hill had marriage in mind when they attempted to court her.

"Terrible about that fire in Charleston."

'Terrible," she agreed, though she felt no sympathy for the white property owners. She had no desire to see lives lost, but if every plantation in the state burned down, she wouldn't mind.

"Reckon you'll be starting north soon."

"Yes, I suppose. Now that Aunt Belle's buried, I'm —" She checked, not wanting to say free, in case it would hurt him. It was a potent word, free. "— I'm able to do that."

He examined his fingers, searched the bright river, finally exploded. "Hope you don't mind me saying something else."

"I won't know till you say it, will I?"

He laughed, more at ease. "Wish you'd stay, Miss Jane."

"You don't have to call me miss all the time."

"Seems proper. You're a fine, pretty woman — smarter than I'll ever be."

"You're smart, Andy. I can tell. You'll do even better when you learn to read and write."

"That's part of what I mean, Mi — Jane. Once you leave, won't be anyone here who could teach me. Nobody to teach any of us." He leaned closer. "Jubilo's coming. The soldiers of Lincoln are coming. But I can't get along in a white man's world the way I am now. White people write letters, do sums, carry on business. I'm no better fixed for that, I'm no better fixed for freedom than some old hound who lies in the sun all day."

It was not a plea so much as a summation of the plight of a majority in the South: the black people. With Andy, she believed the day of freedom was rapidly approaching. How could slaves meet and deal with the change? They weren't prepared.

She felt a prick of anger then. "You're trying to make me feel ashamed because I won't stay and teach. It isn't my task. It isn't my duty."

"Please don't be angry. That isn't all."

"What do you mean, it isn't all? I don't understand you."

He gulped. "Well — Miss Madeline, she'll be leaving soon to join Mr. Orry. Meek isn't a mean overseer, but he's a hard one. The people need another steadying hand, another friend like Miss Madeline."

"And you think I could replace her?"

"You ain't — aren't a white woman, but you're free. It's the next best thing."

Why the rush of disappointment, then? She didn't know. "I'm sorry I misunderstood, and I thank you for your faith in me, but —" She uttered a little cry as he snatched her hand.

"I don't want you to go, because I like you."

He spoke so fast, it sounded like one long word. The instant he finished, he shut his mouth and looked ready to die of shame. She could barely hear him when he added, "I apologize."

"No, don't. What you said is —" how tongue-tied she felt — "sweet." Inclining her head, she brushed his cheek with her lips. She had never been so bold. She was as embarrassed as Andy; churning. She pushed against the dock. "It's chilly. We ought to go."

"May I walk along?"

"I'd like it if you did."

The three-quarters of a mile to the cabins was traversed in silence, a silence so strained it hurt. They reached the slave street, the far end washed by lemon lamplight from the overseer's house Meek had repainted inside and out. Andy said, "G'night, Miss Jane," in a strangled voice. He veered away toward his own cabin without breaking stride. A last sentence floated behind. "Hope I didn't make you too mad."

No, but he had unsettled her. Mightily. She had developed a strong romantic interest in Andy; it had crept over her with stealth. Tonight, while drops of light fell from the jumping fish, she had come square up against it. It was a powerful pull against the magnet of the North.

Lord. After crying at the burial, she had been certain of her next step. Now she was all topsy-turvy and unsure —

"Boss nigger's the only one good enough for you, huh?"

"What's that?"

Alarmed by the voice from the dark, she searched and saw a form break from an unlit porch to the left. Cuffey ambled to her, took that admire-me stance of his, and said, "Guess you know who." With his tongue pressed against the back of his upper teeth, he made a scary little hissing sound. "I was head driver once. That make me good enough to walk you in the moonlight? I know all the ways to pleasure a gal. Been learnin' since I was nine or ten."

She started around him. He grabbed her forearm with a hand that hurt. "I asked you somethin', nigger. Am I good enough for you to go walkin' with or not?"

Jane struggled to hide her fright. "Nothing on earth would make you good enough. You let go of me or I'll go after your eyes with my fingernails, and while I'm at it, I'll yell for Mr. Meek."

"Meek's gonna die." Cuffey pushed his face near hers, his mouth spewing a fetid odor. "Him an' all the white folks who kicked and beat and bossed us all our lives. Their nigger pets gonna die, too. So, bitch, you better figure out which side —"

"Let go, you ignorant, foul-mouthed savage. A man like you doesn't deserve freedom. You're worthless for anything but spitting on."

She had listeners on various dark porches. A woman hee-heed, a man laughed outright. Cuffey spun left, then right, the whites of his eyes catching moonlight through the trees. His search for his unseen mockers left Jane free to tear loose and run. She dashed into her cabin and stood with her back against the door, panting.

She pulled her pallet against the door and on top of it laid the one Aunt Belle had used. She decided to leave the lamp burning as a further defense. The cabin was uncomfortable; oiled paper in the window frames didn't bar the cold. She pulled two thin blankets over herself and pressed her back against the door. She would feel it move if an intruder tried to open it.

She watched the lamp wick burning, saw the faces of two men in the flame. She would go as soon as she could.

Tomorrow.

During the night she dreamed of country roads choked with thousands of black people, wandering aimlessly. She dreamed of great malformed doors opening to reveal a room she had seen before. The room radiated blinding light; from its white heart, calling voices summoned her —

She woke to the crow of roosters and memories of Cuffey flooding her mind. She pushed these aside and seized on the swiftly fading dream images. Aunt Belle had always put stock in the importance of dreams, though she always said a person had to work hard to figure out the meanings. Jane did this and in an hour reached a decision.

It would be harder to stay than to leave. Despite Cuffey, there would be compensations. One was the help she could give her own people to prepare them a little for the jubilo she believed to be certain.

Another compensation might be Andy. But even without him, there was the call of conscience. She wasn't a Harriet Tubman or a Sojourner Truth; not a great woman; but if she did what she could, she could live with herself. She dressed, fixed her hair, and hurried to the great house to find Madeline.

Orry's wife was at breakfast. "Sit down, Jane. Will you have a biscuit and jam? Some tea?"

She was stunned by the invitation to share the table with the white mistress. She thanked Madeline, sitting opposite her but taking no food. She caught the scandalized look of a house girl returning to the kitchen.

"I came to discuss my leaving, Miss Madeline."

"Yes, I assumed that. Will it be soon? Whenever you go, I'll miss you. So will many others."

"That is what I wanted to speak to you about. I've changed my mind. I'd like to stay at Mont Royal a while longer."

"Oh, Jane — that would make me so happy. You're a bright young woman. I hope to start for Richmond before the end of the month. After I go, you could be of great assistance to Mr. Meek."

"The people I want to help are my own. They must be ready when jubilo comes."

Madeline's smile vanished. "You believe the South will lose?"

"Yes."

Madeline glanced toward the door to the kitchen; there were only the two of them in the dining room. "I confess I have the same dire feeling, though I don't dare admit it because it would destroy Meek's authority. And God knows how my husband would operate this place without —"

She broke off, dark eyes seeking Jane's. "I've said too much. I must trust you not to repeat any of it." "I won't."

"What could you do to help the people get ready, as you call it?"

It was too soon to speak of teaching; a first concession must be won. "I'm not sure, but I know a place to look for the answer. Your library. I'd like your permission to take books and read them."

Madeline ticked a tiny spoon against the gold rim of her teacup. "You realize that's against the law?" "I do."

"What do you hope to find in books?" "Ideas — ways to help the people on this plantation." "Jane, if I gave you permission, and if your reading or your actions caused any harm to this property and, more important, to anyone who lives here, white or black, I wouldn't deal with you through Mr. Meek. I'd do it with my own two hands. I'll have no unrest or violence stirred up."

"I wouldn't do that." Jane held back the last of the thought. But someone else might.

Madeline looked at her steadily. "I take that as another promise."

"You can. And the first one still stands. I won't encourage any of the people to run away, either. But I will try to find ideas to help them when they're free to go or stay, as they choose."

"You' re a forthright young woman," Madeline said; it was far from a condemnation. She stood. "Come along."

Jane followed her to the foyer patterned with sunshine through the fanlight. Madeline reached for the handles of the library doors. "I could be flogged and run out of the state for this." But she seemed to take pride in opening the doors in a theatrical way and standing aside.

It was the room in her dream. Slowly, Jane walked in. Madeline slipped in after her and shut the doors soundlessly.

"Ideas have never frightened me, Jane. They are the chief salvation of this planet. Read as much of what's here as you want."

Leathery incense swirled from shelves without so much as an inch of empty space. Jane felt herself to be in a cathedral. She continued to stand silently, like a petitioner. Then she tilted her head back and raised her gaze to the books, all the books, while a radiance broke over her face.

45

"George, you mustn't rave so. You'll bring on a fit."

"But — but —"

"Have a cigar. Let me pour you a whiskey. Every night it's the same. You come home so upset. The children have noticed."

"Only a statue could stay calm in that place." He ripped his uniform collar open and stamped to the window, where snow-flakes touched the glass and melted. "Do you know how I passed the afternoon? Watching this nitwit from Maine demonstrate his water-walker: two small canoes fitted onto his shoes. Just the thing for the infantry! Cross the rivers of Virginia in Biblical style!"

Constance held a hand over her mouth. George shook a finger. "Don't you dare laugh. What makes it worse is that I've interviewed four inventors of water-walkers in the last month. What kind of patriotic service is that, listening to men who ought to be committed?"

He pushed at his hair and gazed at the December snowfall without seeing it. Darkness lay on the city, and discouragement; an uneasy possibility of the war lasting a long time. The one shaft of light was McClellan, busy organizing and training for a spring campaign.

"Surely some intelligent inventors show up occasionally," Constance began.

"Of course. Mr. Sharps — whose breechloading rifles Ripley refuses to order, even though Colonel Berdan's special regiment was willing to pay the slight extra cost. The Sharps is newfangled, Ripley says. An army ordnance board tested the gun and praised it a mere eleven years ago, but it's newfangled." He kicked the leg of a stool so hard that it dented the toe of his boot and made him curse.

"Can nothing be done to overrule Ripley? Can't Cameron step in?"

"He's beset by his own problems. I don't think he'll last the month. But certainly something can be done. It was done in October. Not by us, however. Lincoln ordered twenty-five thousand breechloaders."

"He bypassed the department?"

"Do you blame him?" George sank to the sofa, his uniform and disposition in disarray. "I'll give you another example. There's a young fellow from Connecticut named Christopher Spencer. Been a machinist at Colt's in Hartford, among other things. He's patented an ingenious rapid-fire rifle you load by inserting a tube of seven cartridges into the stock. Do you know Ripley's objection to it?" She shook her head. "Our boys would fire too fast and waste ammunition."

"George, I can hardly believe that."

His hand shot up, witness fashion. "God's truth! We dare not equip the infantry with guns that might shorten the war. Ripley's had to give on the breechloaders — we're ordering a quantity for the cavalry — but he's adamant about the repeaters. So the President continues to do our work. This afternoon Bill Stoddard told me ten thousand Spencers are being ordered from the Executive Mansion. Hiram Berdan's sharpshooters will have some to try by Christmas."

George stormed up again, trailing smoke from a new cigar. "Do you have any notion of the damage Ripley's doing? Of how many young men may die because he abhors the thought of wasting ammunition? I can't take it much longer, Constance — thinking of the deaths we're causing while I pretend to be interested in some village idiot's water-walker —"

He lost volume toward the end. He stood smoking with his head bowed in front of the window framing the slow downdrift of the snow. She had often witnessed her husband's explosions of temper, but they were seldom mingled with this kind of despair. She slipped her arms around him from behind, pressed her breast to the back of his dark blue coat.

"I don't blame you for feeling miserable." She clasped her hands and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. "I have a piece of news. Two, actually. Father's in the Territory of New Mexico, trying to stay out of the way of the Union and Confederate armies maneuvering there. He feels confident he'll reach California by the end of the winter."

"Good." The reply was listless. "What else?"

"We've been invited to a levee for your old friend the general of the armies."

"Little Mac? He probably won't even speak to me now that he's top man." McClellan had been promoted November first; Scott was finished.

"George, George —" She turned him and looked into his eyes. "This isn't the man I know. My husband. You're so bitter."

"Coming here was a catastrophe. I'm wasting my time — doing no good at all. I should resign and go home with you and the children."

"Yes, I'm sure Ripley makes you feel that way." Soothingly, she caressed his face; the day had produced a rough stubble below the waxed points of his mustache. "Do you remember Corpus Christi, when we met? You said you wished the steamer for Mexico would leave without you —"

"That's right. I wanted to stay and court you. I wanted it more than anything."

"But you boarded with the others and sailed away."

"I had some sense of purpose then. A hope of accomplishing something. Now I'm just a party to bungling that may cost thousands of lives."

"Perhaps if Cameron's forced to resign, things will improve." "In Washington? It's a morass of chicanery, stupidity, witless paper shuffling — but self-preservation has been raised to a high art. A few faces may change, nothing more." "Give it a little longer. I think it's your duty. War is never easy on anyone. I learned that lying awake every night fearing for your safety in Mexico." She kissed him, the barest tender touch of mouth and mouth.

Some of his strain dissipated, leaving a face that was almost a boy's despite the markings of the years.

"What would I do without you, Constance? I'd never survive." "Yes, you would. You're strong. But I'm glad you need me." He clasped her close. "More than ever. All right, I'll stay a while longer. But you must promise to hire a good lawyer if I break down and murder Ripley."

On Monday, December 16, Britain was in mourning for the Queen's husband.

News of Albert's death the preceding Saturday had not yet crossed the Atlantic, but certain pieces of diplomatic correspondence, authored at Windsor Castle shortly before the prince consort's passing, had. Though not overly belligerent in tone, Albert continued to press for release of the Confederate commissioners.

Stanley knew it was going to happen, and soon, although not for any of the high-flown, moralistic reasons that would be handed out as sops to the press and the public. The government had to capitulate for two reasons: Great Britain was a major supplier of niter for American gunpowder, but she was currently withholding all shipments. Further, a second war couldn't be risked, especially when the latest diplomatic mail said the British were hastily armoring some of their fighting ships. The smooth­bore guns placed to defend American harbors would be useless against an armored fleet.

December became a nexus of hidden but genuine desperations for the government. They threatened Stanley's little manufacturing empire, which had increased his net worth fifty percent in less than six months. Mounting panic drove him to extreme measures. Late at night, he jimmied drawers of certain desks and removed confidential memoranda long enough to read them and copy key phrases. He had frequent meetings with a man from Wade's staff in parks or unsavory saloons below the canal; at the meetings he turned over large amounts of information, without actually knowing whether his actions would help his cause. He was gambling that they would. He was laying all his bets on a single probability, said by some to be certainty: Cameron's fall.

Even Lincoln was threatened by the militancy of Wade and his crew. The new congressional committee was to be announced soon. Dominated by the true believers among the Republicans, it would curb the President's independence and run the war the way the radicals wanted it run.

For all these reasons, the atmosphere in the War Department had grown tense. So, on that Monday morning, having just received another bad jolt, Stanley thankfully absented himself. He hurried through a light snowfall to 352 Pennsylvania, where, above a bank and an apothecary's, three floors housed the city's and the nation's premier portrait studio, Brady's Photographic Gallery of Art. Stanley's watch showed he was nearly a half hour late for the sitting.

On Brady's first floor, a dapper receptionist sat among images of the great framed in gold or black walnut. Fenimore Cooper peered from a fading daguerreotype; rich Corcoran had been photographed life-size and artistically colored with crayon, a popular technique; and Brady still kept a hot-eyed John Calhoun on display.

The receptionist said Isabel and the twins were already in the studio. "Thank you," Stanley gasped as he rushed up the stairs, quickly short of breath because of his increasing weight. On the next floor he passed craftsmen decorating photographs with India ink, pastels, or the crayons Isabel had chosen for the family portrait. Before he reached the top floor, he heard his sons quarreling.

The studio was a spacious room dominated by skylights. Isabel greeted him by snapping, "The appointment was for noon."

"Departmental business kept me. There's a war in progress, you know." He sounded even nastier than his wife, which startled her.

"Mr. Brady, my apologies. Laban, Levi — stop that instantly." Stanley swept off his tall, snow-soaked hat and smacked one twin, then the other. The strapping adolescents froze, stunned by their father's uncharacteristic outburst.

"Delays are to be expected of someone in your position," Brady said smoothly. "No harm done." He hadn't become successful and prosperous by insulting important clients. He was a slender, bearded man nearing forty, expensively outfitted in a black coat, smart gray doeskin trousers, a sparkling shirt, and a black silk cravat that flowed down over a matching doeskin vest. He wore spectacles.

With crisp gestures, Brady signaled a young assistant, who repositioned the big gold clock against the red drapery backdrop. The clock face bore the name Brady, as did almost everything else in his business, including his published prints and his field wagons, one of which Stanley had seen overturned along the Bull Run retreat route.

"The light's marginal today," Brady observed. "I don't like to make portraits when there is no sun. The exposures are too long. Since this is a portrait for Christmas, however, we shall try. Chad?" He snapped his fingers, gestured. "To the left slightly." The assistant jumped to move the tripod bearing a white reflector board.

Brady cocked his head and studied the truculent twin sons of Mr. and Mrs. Hazard. "I believe I want the parents seated and the boys behind. They are active young fellows. We shall have to clamp their heads with the immobilizers."

Laban started to protest, but a growl from Stanley cut it short. The sitting lasted three-quarters of an hour. Brady repeatedly dove under the black hood or whispered instructions to the assistant, who slammed the huge plates into the camera with practiced haste. At the end, Brady thanked them and suggested they speak to the receptionist about delivery of the portrait. Then he hurried out. "Evidently we're not important enough to see him more than once," Isabel complained as they left.

"Oh, for God's sake, can't you ever worry about anything except your status?"

More in surprise than anger, she said, "Stanley, you're in a perfectly vile temper this morning. Why?"

"Something terrible's happened. Let's send the boys home in a hack, and I'll explain over some food at Willard's."

The sole with almonds was splendidly prepared, but Stanley had no appetite for anything but pouring out his anxiety. "I managed to get hold of a draft copy of Simon's annual report on departmental activities. There's a section they say Stanton drafted. It states that the government has the right and perhaps the obligation to issue firearms to contrabands and send them to fight their former masters."

"Simon proposes to arm runaway slaves? That's bizarre. Who's going to believe the old thief has suddenly turned into a moral crusader?"

"He must think someone will believe it."

"He's lost his mind."

Stanley eyed the tables around them; no one was paying attention. He leaned toward his wife and lowered his voice. "Here's the grisly part. The entire report has gone to the government printer — but not to Lincoln."

"Does the President usually review such reports?"

"Review them and approve them for publication, yes."

"Then why —?"

"Because Simon knows the President would reject this one. Remember how he overturned Fremont's emancipation order? Simon's desperate to get his statement into print. Don't you see, Isabel? He's sinking, and he thinks the radicals are the only ones who can throw him a line. I don't think they'll do it, for the very reason you sensed. Simon's ploy is transparent."

"You've been helping Wade — won't that save you if Cameron goes down?"

He pounded a fist into his other palm. "I don't know!"

She ignored the outburst and pondered. In a few moments, she murmured, "You're probably right about Simon's motive and the reason he doesn't want Lincoln to see the report until it's printed. Whatever happens, don't be lulled into speaking in support of that controversial passage."

"For God's sake why not? Surely Wade will endorse it. And Stevens, and I don't know how many others."

"I don't think so. Simon is a trimmer, and the whole town knows it. The mantle of the moralist looks ludicrous on him. He'll never be allowed to wear it."

She was right. When an early copy of the report reached the President, he ordered an immediate reprinting with the controversial passage removed. The day it happened, Cameron stormed about the department speaking in a shout. He sent a messenger to the offices of Mr. Stanton at half past nine. He dispatched the same boy to the same destination shortly after noon and again at three. It didn't take great intelligence to guess that Cameron's lawyer, now acknowledged as the writer of the passage, was, for whatever reason, not answering his client's appeals for help.

"The damage is done," Stanley said to Isabel the next evening. Ashen, he handed her a copy of Mr. Wallach's Evening Star, the city's strongly Democratic — some said pro-Southern — paper. "Somehow they got hold of the report."

"You told me the passage had been removed."

"They got the original version."

"How?"

"God knows. It would be just my luck for someone to accuse me."

Isabel ignored his guilt fantasies, musing, "We could have passed the report to the papers ourselves. It's a rather nice touch. Sure to heat the bipartisan fires. Neither party wants to see guns passed out to the darkies — yes, a nice touch. I wish I'd thought of it."

"How can you smile, Isabel? If the boss goes down, I may be dragged along. I don't know whether Wade found any of my information useful or whether I gave him enough. I haven't seen him since the party here. So nothing's assured —" He thumped the dining table with his fist; his voice rose, shrill. "Nothing."

She closed her fingers on his wrist and let him feel her nails. "The ship is in a storm, Stanley. When a ship is in a storm, the captain ties himself to the wheel and rides it out. He doesn't run whimpering belowdecks to hide."

The scorn — the comparison — humiliated him. But it did nothing to relieve his fears. He fretted and tossed in bed, getting little more than three hours of solid sleep.

Next morning, he jumped in his chair when Cameron shot into his office with a file of footwear and clothing contracts he had just approved. The haggard secretary disposed of business in a few sentences, then asked, "Haven't seen Mr. Stanton anywhere about town, have you, my boy?"

Stanley's heart hammered. Did it show? "No, Simon. It isn't likely that I would. He and I don't move in the same circles at all."

"Oh?" Cameron gave his pupil an odd stare. "Well, I can't seem to locate him, and he won't answer messages. Curious. The fellow who wrote the very words that got me in the soup won't say a damn thing in defense of them. Or me. I've shown myself to be on the side of Wade's bunch, but they don't want me. Stanton acts as if he's on the President's side, but last week I heard him call Abe the Original Gorilla. Understand Little Mac got quite a chuckle out of that. I'm still trying to find out how the report reached the Star —" His eye fixed on Stanley again. He knows. He knows.

Cameron shook his head. There was something sad about him now. He seemed less competent, less sure. A mere mortal, and a tired one. A bitter smile appeared. "I'd call it all mighty queer business if I didn't know its real name. Politics. By the bye — did you and Isabel receive an invitation to the President's levee for McClellan?"

"Y-yes, sir, I believe Isabel mentioned that we did."

"Hmm. I failed to get mine. Fault of the postal service, don't you suppose?" Looking as if he had alum in his mouth, he darted another look at his subordinate. "Must excuse me, Stanley. Got a lot to do before I surrender my portfolio. They'll be asking for it any day now."

He went out with a sprightly step. Stanley pressed his palms to the desk and shut his eyes, dizzy. Had he pulled it off? Had Isabel pulled it off?

46

I am, George thought, too damned much of a cynic.

Not so, argued a second side of him. You have just become, in short order, a Washingtonian.

The hack's back wheels bumped into a splattery mudhole, lurched out again. A few more blocks and he'd be back at Willard's, where a small dinner was being given to honor the visitor from Braintree.

A light snow fell. The town George sometimes referred to as Canaille on the Canal looked pretty as an engraving. Shining Christmas lights temporarily obscured the vapid minds behind the eyes of the bureaucrats; the deep, piney smell of greens temporarily masked the stink of fear, damp, and cavelike cold pervading everything this December. Despite the splendor of the martial reviews General McClellan had staged here and in Virginia throughout the autumn, and despite the general's frequent predictions of forthcoming victory, George wondered whether any substance supported the show. He hated his own faithless attitude, but he wondered.

He had just come from the arsenal, where Billy was encamped with his battalion — happy enough, though displaying a certain shortness of temper. George knew that to be a common symptom of winter quarters. Yesterday Constance had returned from another short trip to Lehigh Station; Brown had gone up with her and planned to stay a few more days to settle in some more children. Brett had sent Christmas packages with Constance. Delivering Billy's was the excuse that had taken him to the arsenal.

The brothers had discussed the visitor from Braintree. Billy had heard about the private party but hadn't been invited. In an effort to make him feel better about that, George said, "Hell, I'll probably be the most junior shoulder strap in attendance. I was warned that half of Little Mac's staff would be there, though not the general himself."

"Have you ever met the guest of honor?" Billy hadn't.

"Once, after a graduation. Can't claim I know him."

At the hotel, George rushed to the suite, kissed his wife, hugged his children, brushed his hair and mustache, then dashed down­stairs again, late for the reception preceding the dinner for Superintendent Emeritus Sylvanus Thayer. Seventy-six and long retired, Thayer had come down from Massachusetts to attend the levee for McClellan.

A formidable quantity of brain and brass filled the parlor: sixty or seventy officers, most of them colonels or brigadiers. The West Point bond minimized boundaries between ranks. Protected from the curious by closed doors, the old grads enjoyed generous portions of port or fine bourbon poured by black men in hotel livery. George was thankful Brown had quit his job as porter and accepted a salary arrangement the Hazards had proposed so he could devote full time to the children.

A large crowd surrounded the slender and exceptionally fit-looking Thayer, so George fell into conversation with another major and a colonel, both of whom he remembered from Mexico. Half the regular officers in the army had served there.

Two brigadiers joined the group — men George knew from the class ahead of his. Baldy Smith and Fitz-John Porter both had divisions. Smith seemed irked by the surroundings, the refreshments, the lighting — he had that kind of disposition — but George still liked him better than Porter. Even in his Academy days, Porter had struck George as showy and prone to boasting — like the general to whose staff he now belonged.

Bourbon relaxed the men; they were soon reminiscing as equals. Thayer walked to the group, warmly greeting each officer. He had a phenomenal memory; it was a vast permanent file of the names and careers of every graduate, even those like George and the brigadiers who had gone through the place long after his tenure.

"Hazard — yes, certainly," Thayer said. "Where are you now?" George told him. "Pity. You had an excellent record at the Academy. You belong in the field."

Not wanting to offend the guest, George responded with care. "I never felt I had a talent for soldiering, sir." What he meant was a taste for it.

Baldy Smith snorted. "What we're doing in Virginny isn't soldiering; it's cattle droving."

To the abattoir? George thought; he still had nightmares about Bull Run. He smiled and shrugged. "I went where I was asked to go."

"You don't sound happy about it." Directness was Thayer's style.

"I don't believe I should comment on that, sir."

"That kind of answer qualifies you to be a general," said another brigadier, a jovial Pennsylvanian named Winfield Hancock whom George was glad to have join the group. Presently they all sat down at a great horseshoe table for a huge meal centered around capon and prime steer beef. The whiskey and port flowed, and various dinner wines; by the time Thayer was introduced, George was ready to slide under the table. He couldn't hold back a belch. On his right, Fitz-John Porter cleared his throat and silently disapproved.

Thayer's voice was thin, but he spoke with passion. He stated a fact already known to those in the room: West Point was once again under attack. This time, however, the attack carried special danger because of the effort to fix blame on the Academy for the resignation of all the officers who had gone south. Thayer pleaded for each man to make a personal pledge to defend the school if, as he feared, Congress attempted to destroy it by removing its appropriation.

"I am cheered," he said, "to see so many of you serving the nation that educated you and gave you a proud profession. I know you have the stamina to stay the course. I was dismayed by many newspaper articles I read before the great battle in July, articles that said the struggle would be quickly concluded. Knowing our brother officers from the states in rebellion — their intelligence, their courage, their records, which remain as fine as yours except in one fatal respect — I would counter every one of those assertions with one of my own."

No sound then except the gas hissing. The frail old man held every eye. Thick layers of cigar smoke gave the speaker and the scene a kind of infernal unreality.

"An assertion that you know as a principle and a truth. It requires three years to build an efficient army. Even then, when such an army is in place, it must endure great tribulation in order to win. War is not a Sabbath rest or a summer picnic. Those of you who campaigned in Mexico remember. Those of you who campaigned in the West remember. War extracts a mighty toll in human life and human sorrow. Be ever mindful of that. Be strong. Be patient. But be certain, too. You shall prevail."

When he sat, the stamping and shouting were thunderous. They sang "Benny Haven's, Oh!" and even George the Cynical had moist eyes by the last verse. Later, for Constance, he quoted as much of Thayer's speech as he could remember. The closing passage haunted him in the sleepless small hours of the night.

The great levee for Major General George Brinton McClellan took place as the year wore away in a continuing atmosphere of doubt and hidden struggle. Gossip flew; pronouncements abounded. The Trent captives would be released because the

Union could not afford to do without niter. Formation of the new Joint Congressional Committee on the Conduct of the War would be announced at any hour. McClellan would crush the Confederacy in the spring. Didn't he issue frequent statements to that effect? McCIellan's detractors said he had intrigued to have gouty old Scott removed so the post of general-in-chief would also be his.

The Executive Mansion shone with lights, hummed with conversation, resounded with the holiday airs played by a string ensemble as the privileged guests arrived. George promised to introduce Constance to his old classmate, but only after he had surveyed the territory from afar, so to speak.

McClellan looked hardly older than when he and George had boned for exams together. He had grown a dramatic auburn mustache but was otherwise much the same stocky, assured fellow George recalled from the class of '46. Everything about him, from his fine, bold nose to his wide shoulders, seemed to make a single statement. Here is strength; here is competence. He had returned to the army from the railroad business in Illinois, and his brilliant ascendancy made George feel more than slightly inferior.

Brilliant was the word, all right. An aura of celebrity surrounded the McClellans as they circulated in the crowd. Close after the general trotted two of his numerous European aides, the merry young French exiles the Comte de Paris and the Due de Chartres. Silly hostesses had renamed them Captain Parry and Captain Chatters.

It was McClellan to whom all the eavesdroppers listened when he and his wife engaged the President and Mrs. Lincoln in conversation. Since establishing himself in an H Street house in defiance of those who said he should live in camp, McClellan had left no doubt about which person, President or general-in-chief, was the more important. The town still talked of a November incident. One evening Lincoln and another of his secretaries, young John Hay, had gone to H Street on government business. The general wasn't home yet. An hour later he arrived. He went straight upstairs without seeing the visitors, was informed the President was waiting, and went to bed. Some said Lincoln was infuriated, but he tended to cover such emotions with a blend of Western modesty and good humor. Unlike McClellan, arrogance was not his style.

"Plenty of politicians here," George said to Constance from the side of his mouth. "There's Wade — he's to run the new committee. There's Thad Stevens."

"His wig's crooked. It's always crooked."

"Are you playing Isabel tonight?"

She whacked his braided sleeve with her fan. "You're horrid."

"On the subject of horrid — I see the lady herself. And my brother."

Stanley and Isabel had not as yet noticed George and Constance. All their attention was given to Wade, then to Cameron, who showed up alone and was circulating with an air Stanley could only characterize as conspiratorial. How had he gotten an invitation? Cameron saw them but avoided them. What did that signify?

Stanton spoke tete-a-tete with Wade, not even acknowledging the presence of his client. Stanley felt less like a Judas; others were selling, too, it appeared. But what? To whom? For what purpose? He felt like an ignorant child who knew he was ignorant.

"I'll bet Stanton wants Simon's job," Isabel said behind her unfolded fan. "That would explain why you saw him skulking around Wade's office and why he failed to defend or even take responsibility for the original report."

The thought, wholly new, left Stanley dumbfounded.

"Close your mouth. You look like a cretin."

He obeyed, then said, "My dear, you constantly astound me. I think you may be right."

She drew him to a more private corner. "Let's suppose I am. What sort of man is Stanton?"

"Another Ohioan. Brilliant lawyer. Strong abolitionist." Stanley's eyes darted here and there. He bent close. "Willful, they say. Devious, too. Very much to be feared."

She seized his arm. "Their conversation's over. You must speak to Wade. Try to find out where you stand."

"Isabel, I can't simply walk up to him and ask —"

"We will go greet him. Both of us. Now."

There was no argument. Her hand clawed shut on his and she pulled. By the time they reached Ben Wade, Stanley feared his bladder might let go. Isabel smiled in her best imitation of a stage coquette. "How delightful to see you again, Senator. Where is your charming wife?"

"Here somewhere. Must find her."

"I trust all's going well with the new committee we hear so much about?"

Isabel's question was an irresistible prompt. "Yes indeed. We'll soon put the war effort on a more solid footing. A clearer course."

The slap at Lincoln was obvious, so she said quickly: "A purpose I support, as does my husband."

"Oh, yes." Wade smiled; Stanley felt there was contempt in it, meant for him. "Your husband's loyalty and —" the slightest pause to heighten effect "— devoted service are known to many of those on the committee. We trust your cooperative spirit will continue to prevail, Stanley."

"Most definitely, Senator."

"Good news. Good evening."

As Wade strode off, Stanley almost fainted. He had survived the purge. His vision blurred. He saw the machines of Lashbrook's cutting, sewing, spewing bootees that piled up in hills, then foot­hills, then mighty mountains washed with gold light.

He pulled himself from the delicious reverie, prideful as a boy who has hooked a big fish. "Isabel, I think I may get drunk tonight. With or without your permission."

The inevitable meeting of the brothers and their wives took place a few minutes later, near the glittering glass punch bowls. Greetings were polite on both sides, but nothing more; George found it hard to put feeling into a wish that Stanley and Isabel would enjoy a fine Christmas.

"Met our young Napoleon yet?" Stanley slurred the question; he was consuming rum punch rapidly, George noticed.

"Haven't spoken to him so far this evening, but I will. I know him from Mexico and West Point."

"Oh, you do?" Isabel's face briefly suggested she had lost a point in some game.

"What's he like? Personally, I mean," Stanley asked. "I gather he has a fine pedigree. But he's a Democrat. Soft on slavery, they say. Odd choice for the President to make, don't you think?"

"Why? Aren't politics supposed to be set aside during a crisis?"

Isabel sniffed. "If you believe that, you're naive, George."

He saw pink rising in his wife's cheeks. He picked up her hand and curled her arm around his; gradually her hand unclenched. "To answer your question, then — McClellan's extremely bright. Graduated second in our class. He was brevetted three times in Mexico for gallantry. Billy told me the troops love him. They cheer when he rides by. We needed a man the rank and file would trust, and I'd say we have one. Strikes me the President made an intelligent choice, not a political one." "The President couldn't have said it better himself." Isabel looked ready to sink into the floor at the sight of the speaker behind George. Lincoln's long arm lifted; his hand came to rest on George's shoulder. "How are you, Major Hazard? Is this attractive lady your wife? You must introduce me."

"With pleasure, Mr. President." George presented Constance, then asked whether Lincoln knew his brother and Isabel. The tall man with the scarecrow look politely said yes, he believed they had met, but George got an impression that Lincoln had not found the meeting memorable in a positive way. Isabel caught that, too. It clearly irked her.

Constance was properly deferential to the Chief Executive but relaxed, not grimacing or fidgeting with her lace gloves as Isabel was. "My husband said he encountered you one evening at the arsenal, Mr. President."

"That's right. The major and I discussed firearms." George said, "I hope I'm not being disloyal to my department if I tell you I was pleased to hear of the purchase of some Spencers and Sharps repeaters."

"Your chief wouldn't buy them, and someone had to. But we mustn't bore the ladies with sanguinary talk tonight." He changed the subject to Christmas, which recalled an anecdote. Telling it with visible glee, he did different voices and dialects. The laughter at the end was genuine except for Isabel's; she brayed so loudly, people stared.

"Tell me something about yourself, Mrs. Hazard," the President said. She did; they chatted about Texas for a minute. Then a remark of hers prompted another anecdote. He had just started it when his pudgy, overdressed wife bore down and swept him away. That gave Isabel an opportunity to leave. Stanley followed without instruction.

"George, that was one of the most thrilling things I've ever experienced," Constance said. "But I felt so humiliated — I've put on so much weight. It makes me ugly."

He patted her hand. "The extra pound or two may be real, but the rest is in your head. Did you see how Lincoln heeded your every word? He has an eye for handsome women — which is why his wife swooped down that way. I'm told she hates for him to be alone with another female. Ah, there's Thayer. Come meet him."

Constance charmed the retired superintendent, too. The trio approached McClellan, temporarily without a crowd around him. "An old classmate of yours —" Thayer began.

"Stump Hazard! I saw you across the room a while ago — knew you instantly." McClellan's greeting was hearty, yet George thought he detected artificiality. On second thought, perhaps it existed mostly in his imagination. McClellan was now a national figure; George knew that changed the way people perceived and treated him. His own self-conscious reply demonstrated it.

"Good evening, General."

"No, no — Mac, always. Tell me, what's become of that fellow you were so tight with? Southerner, wasn't he?"

"Yes. Orry Main. I don't know what's become of him. I last saw him in April."

McClellan's wife, Nell, joined them, and the four fell to talking about Washington and the war. McClellan grew grave. "The Union is in peril, and the President seems powerless to save it. The savior's role has fallen to me. I shall perform it to the best of my ability."

Not even a hint of lightness leavened the statement. George felt his wife's hand tighten on his sleeve; was her reaction the same as his? In a moment the McClellans excused themselves to join General and Mrs. Meade. Constance waited till they were out of ear­shot.

"I have never heard anything so astonishing. There's something wrong with a man who calls himself a savior."

"Well, Mac isn't your average fellow and never was. We shouldn't be too quick to judge. God knows the task they handed him is formidable."

"I still say there's something wrong with him."

George silently admitted McClellan had left the same impression with him.

He could no longer fool himself into thinking he was having a good time. As the currents of the party flowed and mingled, he and Constance found themselves in a circle with Thad Stevens, the Pennsylvania lawyer who would be the most powerful House member of Wade's oversight committee. Stevens struck most everyone as peculiar, with his clubfoot and his head of thick hair cocked fifteen degrees off the vertical. A certain sinister air was only enhanced by his cold passion.

"I do not agree with the President on all subjects, but I agree on one. As he says, the Union is not some free-love arrangement which any state can dissolve at will. The rebels are not erring sisters, as Mr. Greeley so tenderly termed them, but enemies, vicious enemies, of the temple of freedom that is our country. There can be only one fate for vicious enemies. Punishment. We should free every slave, we should slaughter every traitor, we should burn every rebel mansion to the ground. If those in the executive lack the grit for the job, our committee does not." The eye of the zealot swept the awed group. "I give you my solemn promise, ladies and gentlemen — the committee does not." He limped away.

"Constance," George said, "let's go home."

Madeline and Hettie, a house girl, were wiping out a mildewed trunk when feet pounded on the attic stair. "Miss Madeline? You better come quick."

She dropped the damp rag and went instantly. "What is it, Aristotle?"

"Miss Clarissa. She went for her walk after breakfast, and they found her in the garden."

Dread pierced her, sharp as the air of the winter morning. The sun had not risen high enough to burn the white rime from the lawn. They ran down to the garden, where Clarissa lay on her back between two azalea bushes. Clarissa stared at Madeline and the slave with glittering eyes.

Her left hand reached toward them, imploring. Her right lay unnaturally limp. Tears in her eyes, she tried to form words and produced nothing but thick glottal sounds.

"It's a seizure," Madeline said to the anxious black man. She wanted to cry; she wouldn't get away before New Year's after all. She couldn't go until Clarissa recovered. "We must make a litter and move her inside." Aristotle dashed for the house. When the litter was ready, lifting Clarissa revealed melted rime in the shape of her body — a shadow on a snowfield.

The doctor emerged from Clarissa's bedroom at half past eleven. Outwardly calm, Madeline received the news that paralysis of the right side was nearly total, and recovery might take most of next year.

47

Christmas Eve fell on a Tuesday. George couldn't shake the bad mood that had been with him since the McClellan reception. The war, the city, even the season depressed him for reasons he couldn't completely explain.

A fragrant fire brightened the hearth of the parlor after supper. Patricia had resumed her music lessons with a local teacher, but a regular piano wasn't practical in the crowded suite, so George had bought a small harmonium. Patricia opened a carol book, pumped the pedals, and played "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen."

Constance came out of the bedroom with three large presents. She placed the packages near similar ones at the base of the fir tree decorated with cranberry strands, gilt-painted wood ornaments, and tiny candles. Buckets of water and sand waited behind the tree. All the gas had been shut off in the room; the light was mellow and pleasant — quite unlike George's state of mind.

"Sing with me, Papa," his daughter said between phrases. He shook his head, remaining in his chair. Constance went to the harmonium and added her voice to Patricia's. The young girl resembled her mother in her prettiness and her bright hair.

Singing, Constance glanced occasionally at her husband. His despondency worried her. "Won't you, George?" she asked finally, motioning.

"No."

William wandered in and sang "Joy to the World" with them. Puberty put a crack in his voice; Patricia giggled so hard Constance had to speak to her. After the carol William said, "Pa, can't each of us open one present tonight?"

"No. You've nagged me about that all evening, and I'm sick of it."

"George, I beg your pardon," Constance said. "He hasn't nagged. He's mentioned it only once."

"Once or a hundred times, the answer's no." He addressed his son. "We shall attend our church in the morning, and your mother will go to mass, then we'll have our gifts."

"After church?" William cried. "Waiting that long isn't fair. Why not after breakfast?"

"It's your father's decision," Constance said softly. George paid no attention to her slight frown.

William wouldn't be persuaded. "It isn't fair!"

"I'll show you what's fair, you impertinent —"

"George!" He was halfway to his son before Constance stepped between them. 'Try to remember it's Christmas Eve. We are your family, but you act as if we're enemies. What's wrong?"

"Nothing — I don't know — Where are my cigars?" He leaned on the mantelpiece, his back to the others. His eye fell on the sprig of laurel he had brought from Lehigh Station and kept on the mantel. The sprig was withered and brown. He snatched it and flung it in the fire.

"I'm going to bed."

The laurel smoked, curled, and vanished.

He slammed the bedroom door and splashed cold water on his face, then searched till he found a cigar. After raising the window, he crawled into bed with a stack of contracts he had brought home. The fine loops and flourishes of the copyists blurred before his eyes, meaningless. He felt guilty about his behavior, angry with everyone and everything. He dropped the contracts on the floor, stubbed out the cigar, extinguished the gas, and rolled up under the comforter.

He never knew when Constance came to bed. He was lost and far away, watching exquisitely slow shellbursts on the road to Churubusco, watching a great malevolent India-rubber head — Thad Stevens — loom steadily larger, the shouting mouth huge as a cave. Free every slave. Slaughter every traitor. Burn every mansion. In the ravening maw he saw Mont Royal afire.

He watched the road from Cub Run. The fallen horse. The young Zouave, crashing his musket down on the only target he could find for his fear and fury. The horse peeled its lips back from its teeth, demented by pain. The Zouave struck once more. The head opened like some exotic fruit, spilling its red pulp in pumping spurts that became a flow. Which was the animal? Which was the man? The guns changed everything.

The Zouave, the horse, the scene exploded as if struck by a shell. Deep in dreams, the dreamer retreated, whimpering with relief — only to see the Zouave approach the horse again, raise the musket again, bring the butt down again, the cycle restarting —

"Stop it."

"George —"

"Stop it, stop it." He flailed at soft things wrapped around his body. He kept screaming "Stop it."

A young voice called out fearfully: "Pa? Mama, is he all right?"

"Yes, William."

"Stop —" A great, long gasp from George, and realization. Faintly: "— it."

"Go back to bed, William," Constance called. "It's just a nightmare."

"Jesus Christ," George whispered in the dark, shuddering.

"There." Her arms were what he had attempted to fight off. "There." She brushed hair from his wet forehead, kissing him. How warm she felt. He slid his hands around her and held her, ashamed of his weakness but thankful for the comfort. "What were you dreaming? It must have been horrible."

"Mexico, Bull Run — it was. I'm sorry I was so rotten tonight. I'll speak to the children first thing in the morning. We'll open gifts. I want them to know I'm sorry."

"They understand. They know you're hurting badly. They just don't know why. I'm not sure I do either."

"God, they must hate me."

"Never. They know you're a good father. They love you and want you to be happy, especially at Christmas."

"The war makes Christmas a mockery." He pressed his face to hers; both cheeks were cold. The room was freezing; he had opened the window too far. The air smelled of old cigars and of his sweat.

"Is it the war that's troubling you so badly?"

"I guess. What a little word, war, to bring so much misery. I can't stand the dishonesty in this town. The greed behind the flag-waving rhetoric. Do you know something? At the rate Stanley is selling bootees to the infantry, he'll have an enormous profit within a year. Practically a small fortune. And do you know that the shoes he's delivering will fall apart after a week of use on hard roads in Virginia or Missouri or wherever the damned disgraceful things are sent?"

"I'd rather not know things like that."

"What bothers me most is something Thayer said at the dinner. You don't build an effective army in ninety days. It takes two or three years."

"You mean he thinks the war may last that long?"

"Yes. The springtime war — short, sanitary — that was a cruel delusion. War's not like that. Never has been, never will be. Now everything's changing. Other men are taking charge, men like Stevens, who want slaughter. Can Billy survive that? What about Orry and Charles? If I ever see Orry again, will he speak to me? Long wars make for long hatreds. A long war will change people, Constance. Wear them out. Destroy them with despair, if it doesn't kill them outright. I finally faced that — and look what it's done to me."

She hugged him to her breast. Her silence said she understood his fears and shared them and had no answers for his questions. Presently he went to shut the window. Outside, it was snowing again.

48

Charles had fired his shotgun in anger just three times during the autumn. Each time he had led a scout detachment well past the rifle pits Hampton's infantry had dug as part of the Confederate defense line; each time the targets were fleeing Yanks on horse­back. He had wounded one but missed the rest.

That typified the months since Manassas: uneventful except for the spirit-lifting victory at Ball's Bluff in late October. In the North the' engagement had produced accusations of bungling, even treason, directed against the Union commander who had led the Potomac crossing, then seen his men shot or drowned as Confederate fire repelled them. Shanks Evans, a South Carolinian who had ridden against Charles in horse races in Texas, had distinguished himself at Ball's Bluff, just as he had at Manassas. Promotion looked doubtful for him, though; he drank too much and had a violent temper.

The colonel's elevation to brigadier, on the other hand, looked certain. He was in favor with Johnston, who had been given the whole Department of Virginia in the reorganization after Ball's Bluff. Old Bory had lost out and was now relegated to command of the Potomac district, one of several in the department. As a practical matter, Hampton had been carrying the responsibilities of a brigadier since November, with three more regiments of foot, two from Georgia, one from North Carolina, placed under him. Calbraith Butler was commanding the cavalry, which did everything from probing Yankee positions to guarding paymaster wagon trains.

During the fall, Charles had found just one period of two days when he was free to visit Spotsylvania County. After a fast, exhausting ride, he had located Barclay's Farm easily, only to find the owner absent. The older of her two freedmen, Washington, said she had gone to Richmond with the younger one, Boz, to sell the last of her corn crop and a few pumpkins, eggs, and cheeses. Charles rode back to the lines in a bitter mood, made no better by hours of drenching rain.

The legion had hutted for the winter near Dumfries. Tonight, Christmas Eve, Charles was alone in the log-and-daub cottage he and Ambrose had put together with axes, sweat, and no Negro labor. Except for a few holdouts such as Custom Cramm III, most of the troopers had sent their slaves home rather than see them run away.

Tattoo had been sounded half an hour ago, and the final call for quiet would be skipped because of tomorrow's holiday. Ambrose had drawn patrol duty, riding out before dark in the direction of Fairfax Courthouse to conduct a routine surveillance of the Union lines. His detachment included Private Nelson Gervais, for whom Charles's epistolary skills had won a promise of the hand of Miss Sally Mills; the couple planned a wedding when Gervais got his first leave.

A small fire burned in the hut fireplace, constructed of bricks foraged in the finest cavalry tradition by First Sergeant Reynolds. The bricks ran to a height level with the top of the door; above, the chimney was mud and sticks. On the mantel, a plank resting on pegs, sat a cased ambrotype of Ambrose's parents and a photograph of Ambrose and Charles with ferns, columns, and the Confederate national flag in the background; such properties were a standard part of the kit of photographers who worked the camps.

The hut measured twelve feet on each side and included a pair of built-in bunks at opposite ends of the room, a rack for sabers and shotguns, and comfortable handmade furniture: a table of thick boards nailed to a keg; two chairs with curved backs created from flour barrels. Ambrose was a fine woodworker, though he complained that it was slave's work. He had carved the sign hanging outside above the door and insisted that doing so gave him the right to name the hut. But Charles had vetoed Millwood Mansion as too obvious an attempt to flatter Hampton. Ambrose settled on Gentlemen's Rest. Charles would have preferred something less sententious; he rather liked the name of the eight-man hut where Gervais lived, Phunny Phellows.

Though the fire made the hut cozy, Charles's mood was not the best. The evening had started badly when the salt horse served at supper proved inedible. Despite pickling, it was purplish and slimy. They had made do with teeth-dullers and whippoorwill peas.

Turkey, sweet potatoes, and fresh corn bread were promised for Christmas. He would believe a feast when he saw it. Charles's men hated the Commissary Department. They cursed its head man, Northrop, as floridly as they cursed Old Abe — sometimes more. The beef was getting so tough, Colonel Hampton had remarked last week, he was thinking of requisitioning some files for sharpening teeth.

Parcels from home helped to offset the recent and noticeable decline in the quality of rations. Charles had one such package, or the remains of it, on the table in front of him. It had arrived from Richmond this afternoon, preceded by a letter from Orry, who reported that he was now a lieutenant colonel in the War Department and stuck in a job he disliked.

As a precaution, Orry had written out a list of the contents of the package and sent it with the letter: two oranges — all he could locate; they had arrived squashed but edible. Two copies of the Southern Illustrated News; one featured a lengthy article about the victory at Ball's Bluff. The list showed four paper-covered novels, but these had been stolen from the badly torn parcel.

The damage probably accounted for the green mold forming on the two dozen baking-powder biscuits. With his knife, Charles scraped off some of the mold and ate a biscuit. They would do. He wiped the knife blade on his sleeve, which, like the rest of his uniform, had acquired a dirty cast no amount of washing would remove.

Orry had also sent three small crocks of jam for the biscuits; all arrived broken, the contents oozing around pieces of the contaiers. Charles had thrown the whole mess away. Finally, the package included a dark chocolate cake which looked as if a cannonball had dropped on it. That could be salvaged, crumbs and all. Charles knifed out a large wedge and gobbled it.

He pulled out his pocket watch. Half past eight. He had duties tonight, some official, some not; he supposed he might as well start. He scratched his beard, which he was permitting to grow because it kept his face warm. It was already more than an inch long, thus a convenient home for graybacks, but so far he had managed to avoid a serious infestation. Unlike many of his troopers, he washed as often as possible. He hated feeling dirty, and beyond that, if he were ever lucky enough to be alone with Gus Barclay, and if she were receptive to an advance, he damn well didn't want any crab lice in residence around his privates. That would scotch romance forever.

Her face came into his thoughts often these days. It had a special vividness tonight. He felt lonely and wished he were at Barclay's Farm, perhaps listening to her read Pope over cups of heated wine.

He shook his head. Mustn't let anyone else see his state; others in his care surely felt the same way or worse, and were less experienced at dealing with it. It was his duty to look after them.

He rose and plopped his hat on his head as a nearby tenor voice began "Sweet Hour of Prayer." He liked the melody and hummed along as he strapped on his revolver and took his gauntlets from their peg. He saw his breath as he ducked out the door; a light sno'wfall had begun. Ambrose planned to return by midnight, after which they were going to open a bottle of busthead bought from the sutler. Maybe they should organize a snowball fight first; the men were growing quarrelsome from inactivity.

Three messmates from down near the Savannah River came out of their winterized tent to gaze in wonder at the white flakes falling between great dark trees. Charles approached. "First you've ever seen, boys?" "Yes, sir."

"Better look sharp, Captain Main," said another. "A snowball just might pop that hat off your head 'fore you know it."

Charles laughed and walked on down the row of winterized tents; the lower walls were palisaded logs, the roofs canvas, flat or peaked. The unseen tenor began "Away in a Manger." Two deeper voices joined. A burst of laughter from a card game briefly drowned out the carol. Charles kept walking, his boots crunching snow. It already covered the ground.

From a narrow lane between tents came a familiar sputtering sound. Angry, he turned into the lane. Sure enough, there was the malefactor with his pants and drawers down around his calves and his rear jutting over a soiled patch of snow.

"Goddamn you, Pickens, I've told you before — use the sinks. It's men like you who spread sickness in this camp."

The frightened boy said, "I know what you said, Cap'n, but I got a ter'ble case of the quickstep." "The sinks," Charles said without pity. "Get going." The trooper clumsily tugged up his clothing and limped away with a kind of sideways crab step. Charles returned to the street and walked toward the camp entrance, two elaborate pillars and an arch, fashioned of peeled saplings woven together. Quite a work of art, that gate. It would stand till spring, when they would surely take the field to fight McClellan.

Charles passed men standing guard and returned each salute without really seeing it or the man who gave it. Gus Barclay's face filled his thoughts. Outside a hut twice the size of his own, he said to the corporal on duty, "How's the prisoner?"

"He cussed a blue streak for 'bout a half hour, Captain. When I dint pay no attention, he shut up."

"Let's go in and release him. No one should stand punishment on Christmas Eve."

The corporal nodded, brushed snowflakes from his eyebrows and the bill of his kepi, and ducked into the hut. Charles followed. A certain reluctance mingled with his kinder impulse; the man put here just before supper call was the perennially rebellious Private Cramm. First Sergeant Reynolds had issued another order Cramm didn't like, and as the sergeant was moving away, Cramm hawked and spat loudly. Charles ordered him bucked and gagged for the night. Sometimes he wished Cramm were a Yankee, so he could shoot him.

Cramm sat on the dirt floor of the guardhouse, a single bare room feebly lit by a lamp. Above the stick tied in his mouth, sullen eyes watched Charles. Cramm's wrists were roped together behind his drawnup knees; a thick length of pine pole had been slipped between knees and forearms.

"You don't deserve it, Cramm, but I'm going to release you because it's Christmas Eve." While Charles said this, the guard knelt and unfastened the gag. "Escort him to his tent, Corporal. Stay there until reveille, Cramm. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Cramm made a great show of grimacing and twisting his head as if badly hurt. No gratitude was visible on his face; just his eternal contempt. Feeling his temper start to rise, Charles quickly left.

The snow fell like pillow down. The most important call of the night was yet to be paid. He would go right now. The thought relieved the anger Cramm always caused.

Passing the winterized tents again, he stopped. Inside a tent whose sign announced it was the home of The Fighting Cocks, a name chosen in honor of Sumter, the hero of the Revolution, Charles heard a young voice: "Lord God. Oh, Lord God. Oh, oh."

He recognized the speaker; it was Reuven Sapp, nineteen-year-old nephew of the doctor who had drugged Madeline LaMotte with laudanum for so long. The boy had the makings of a good cavalryman if he could get over letting his louder but less competent comrades intimidate him.

"Oh, Lord — oh." Charles tapped on the door and pulled it open without waiting for permission. Seated on one of the four bunks, the straw-haired boy jerked his head up. A letter dropped from his lap. "Captain! I didn't know anyone was close by —"

"I wouldn't have come in, but I heard a voice that sounded pretty low." Charles removed his hat, shook snow from it, walked down three plank steps to the dirt floor, which was excavated to a depth of three feet below ground level for added warmth. The hearth was dark, the tent freezing. "Where are your messmates?" "Went out to see if they could club some rabbits." Sapp struggled to sound normal, but his eyes betrayed him. "That was pretty scrummy food tonight." "Rotten. May I sit down?"

"Oh, certainly, Captain. I'm sorry —" He jumped up as Charles took a chair. He waved Sapp back to the bunk and waited, suspecting the boy would eventually tell him why he felt bad. He was right. Sapp picked up the letter. He spoke haltingly.

"Last August, I worked up the nerve to write a girl I like real well. I asked her whether she could ever look favorably on me as a suitor. She sent me a Christmas greeting." He indicated the fallen letter. "Said she's sorry but I can't be a suitor because I'm not respectable. I don't go to church."

"That makes two of us who aren't respectable then. It's a damn shame you got the news at Christmas. I wish there was something I could —"

Bursting tears interrupted him. "Oh, Captain, I'm so homesick. I'm ashamed of feeling so bad, but I can't help it. I hate this damn war." He bent forward from the waist, hiding his face in his hands, down near his knees. Charles twisted his hat brim, drew a breath, walked to the bunk, and squeezed the shoulder of the crying boy.

"Listen, I feel the same way myself, and often. You're no different from any other soldier in that respect, Reuven. So don't get after yourself so hard." The boy raised his wet red face, gulping. "I suggest we forget this and forget the rules about enlisted men drinking with officers, too. Stop by my hut after a while, and I'll pour you something to brace you up."

"I don't touch spirits, but — thank you anyway, sir. Thank you." Charles nodded and left, hoping he had done some good. He resumed his walk toward the shelters, built with sloping roofs and walls on one side to protect the horses from the worst of the weather. He heard the animals before he saw them. They were upset. His belly tightened as he spied someone crouching next to Sport, where he didn't belong. The man reached for something. Three long strides, and Charles was on him. He caught the man by the collar, recognizing him; he was an aide to Calbraith Butler.

"That's my property you're trying to steal, Sergeant. I foraged those boards so my horse wouldn't stand on wet ground all winter. Go find some firewood for Major Butler somewhere else — and thank your stars I don't report you to him."

Taking a two-handed grip on the collar, Charles flung the thief away from the nervous horses, then booted him in the butt for good measure. The noncom fled through the falling snow without a backward look.

Sport recognized him. Charles peeled off his gauntlets, straightened the heavy gray blanket, and knelt in the mud to be sure the gelding's feet were squarely on the boards. He stepped to the trough holding the evening fodder. Almost all of it was gone. No surprise there; a cavalry horse would eat another horse's tail if he was hungry enough.

Charles fingered a bit of fodder left in the trough: coarse, dry straw; poor stuff. Winter pasturage was already scarce; thousands of cavalry and artillery horses were rapidly chewing away all the grasslands of Virginia. At least there would be another review tomorrow. Calbraith Butler ordered them frequently to keep the animals fit and the men busy.

Charles rubbed Sport affectionately. Taking a lantern from a nail, he lit it and walked along slowly behind the horses. They were growing quiet now that the forager was gone. Holding the lantern high, he checked for signs of disease. He saw nothing alarming. A minor miracle.

What an assortment of nags the troop rode these days. The fine notion of color matching had broken down before the summer ended. Most of the bays in that first springtime skirmish were gone, lost to disease, poor care, and, in four cases, to enemy fire. They had been replaced by browns, roans, Charles's gray, even a couple of conjugates, including one piebald with the ugly lines of a draft horse. But the Yanks still lived in fear of the satanic and largely nonexistent Black Horse Cavalry. Funny.

Thinking about the horses kept drawing him back to the spring, so distant and different. It might have been part of another year, another life, so rapidly had changes come. He hadn't heard Ambrose sing "Young Lochinvar" for a month. Men no longer read Scott for lessons in chivalry, only for entertainment. The behavior of the Yankee officer who had led the search for the quinine smuggler seemed quaint and foolish. He wished Ambrose would return early so they could get to drinking.

He inspected the rest of the troop's shelters; empty spaces here and there belonged to the men patrolling with Ambrose. The color situation was the same in every shelter, proving what was said so often lately: in Virginia a cavalry horse was good for six months.

"We'll prove them wrong, won't we?" he asked Sport when he went back to say good night. He stroked the gelding's head. "By God we will. I'd throw away my fine sword and everything else I own before I'd let you go, my friend."

A passing picket halted. "Who goes there?"

"Captain Main." Embarrassed, Charles kept his head averted, in shadow.

"Very good, sir. Sorry." The footsteps faded. The snow fell, silent and beautiful against the lights of camp.

Charles trudged back to his hut and set out the bottle of busthead. Eleven o'clock. Still in his clothes, he wrapped up in blankets, sure that Ambrose would bound in before long. He slid into his bunk for a short nap, and dreamed of Gus. He woke with a start, rubbed his eyes, and pulled out his watch.

Quarter past three.

"Ambrose?"

Silence.

He rolled out, stiff from the cold. He knew the other bunk was empty before he looked. The busthead stood where he had put it.

He couldn't go back to sleep. He bundled up, finishing by wrapping a scarf round and round his neck, and made a tour of the picket posts. He found one youngster asleep, an offense punishable by execution. But it was Christmas morning. He nudged the boy, reprimanded him, and walked on. Worry infected him like a disease.

At the sapling arch, he asked a guard if there had been any sign of Lieutenant Pell's detachment.

"None, sir. They're late, aren't they?"

"I'm sure they'll be here soon." Some bone-deep instinct said it was a lie.

He rechecked the horse shelters, did a second tour of the picket posts. The snow had stopped while he slept and lay thickly every­where. He waited and watched till he saw the first glimmer of icy orange daybreak. The sapling gate remained empty, the dirt lane beyond leading to pale distances, smoky with cold, where nothing moved. Ambrose wouldn't be back. None of them would be back.

Who should he recommend for promotion before someone began electioneering for it? His junior lieutenant, Wanderly, was a nonentity; his first sergeant, well intentioned, was not smart enough. He recalled that Nelson Gervais had gone out with Ambrose. Along with the letters to the families of the men in the detachment, there was another to write, to Miss Sally Mills.

The changes were coming, steady as the seasons. Old Scott had been pushed aside. McClellan was waiting. First thing you knew, one of his troopers would go to Company Q and come back with a mule. He felt like hell.

Safe from observation in his hut, he bowed his head, swallowed several times, then straightened up. He walked to the mantel, gazed a while at the photograph of himself and his merry lieutenant, both of them looking so confident among the ferns and columns in front of the great proud flag. He turned the photograph face down.

Without removing his gauntlet he picked up the busthead and pulled the cork with his teeth. He emptied the bottle before reveille.