by John Jakes
Behind the large desk sat the master of it all, his mouth tight as a closed purse, his gray hair long, his gray eyes a pair of riddles. In Pennsylvania he’d carried the nickname “Boss,” but no one used it any longer; not in his presence, at least. His fingers were constantly busy with his chief tools of office, a dirty scrap of paper and a pencil stub.
“—too few guns, Mr. Secretary,” Scott was wheezing. “That is all I hear from our camps of instruction. We lack the materiel to train and equip thousands of men who have bravely responded to the President’s call.”
Chase leaned toward the desk. “And the cry for going forward, forward to Richmond, grows more strident by the hour. Surely you understand why.”
From Cameron, dryly, but with hinted reproof: “The Confederate Congress convenes there soon.” He consulted another tiny scrap, discovered inside his coat. “To be exact—on the twentieth of July. The same month in which most of our ninety-day enlistments will expire.”
“So McDowell must move,” snapped Chase. “He, too, is inadequately equipped.”
Discreetly, Stanley wrote a short message on a small tablet. Real problem is vols. He rose and passed the note across the desk. Cameron snatched it, read it, crushed it, and gave a slight nod in Stanley’s direction. He understood McDowell’s chief concern, which was not equipment but the need to rely on volunteer soldiers whose performance he couldn’t predict and whose courage he couldn’t trust. It was the same snide pose common to most regular officers from West Point—those, that is, who hadn’t deserted after being given a fine education, free, at that school for traitors.
Cameron chose not to raise the point, however. He replied to the commanding general with an oozy deference. “General, I continue to believe the chief problem is not too few guns but too many men. We already have three hundred thousand under arms. Far more than we need for the present crisis.”
“Well, I hope you’re right about that,” the President said from his corner. No one paid attention. As usual, Lincoln’s voice tended to the high side, a source of many jokes behind his back.
What a congress of buffoons, Stanley thought as he wriggled his plump derrière on the hard chair bottom. Scott—whom the stupid Southrons called a free-state pimp but who actually needed to be closely watched; he was a Virginian, wasn’t he? And he’d promoted scores of Virginians in the prewar army at the expense of equally qualified men from the North. Chase loved the niggers, and the President was a gauche farmer. For all Cameron’s twisty qualities, he was at least a man of some sophistication in the craft of government.
Chase chose not to answer but to orate. “We must do more than hope, Mr. President. We need to purchase more aggressively in Europe. We have too few ordnance works in the North now that we have lost Harpers Fer—”
“European purchasing is under investigation,” Cameron said. “But, in my opinion, such a course is unnecessarily extravagant.”
Scott stamped on the floor. “Damn it, Cameron, you talk extravagance in the face of rebellion by traitorous combinations?”
“Keep in mind the twentieth of next month,” added Chase.
“Mr. Greeley and certain others seldom let me forget it.”
But the waspy words went unheard as Chase roared ahead: “We must crush Davis and his crowd before they assert their legitimacy to France and Great Britain. We must crush them utterly. I agree with Congressman Stevens, from your own state. If the rebels won’t give up and return to the fold—”
“They won’t.” Scott handed down the word from on high. “I know Virginians. I know Southerners.”
Chase went right on: “—we should follow Thad Stevens’s advice to the letter. Reduce the South to a mudhole.”
At that, the Chief Executive cleared his throat.
It was a modest sound, but it happened to fall during a pause, and no one could ignore it without being rude. Lincoln rose, thrusting hands in his side pockets, which merely emphasized how gangly he looked. Gangly and exhausted. Yet he was only in his early fifties. From Ward Lamon, a presidential crony, Stanley had heard that Lincoln believed he would never return to Springfield. Anonymous letters threatening his murder came to his office every day.
“Well—” Lincoln said. Then he spoke quickly; not with volume but with definite authority. “I wouldn’t say I agree with the Stevens response to the insurrection. I have been anxious and careful that the policy of this government doesn’t degenerate into some violent, remorseless struggle. Some social revolution which would leave the Union permanently torn. I want it back together, and for that reason, none other, I would hope for a quick capitulation by the temporary government in Richmond. Not,” he emphasized, “to satisfy Mr. Greeley, mind. To get this over with and find some accommodation to end slavery.”
Except in the border states, Stanley thought with cynicism. There, the President left the institution untouched, fearing those states would defect to the South.
To Cameron, he said, “I leave purchasing methods in your hands, Mr. Secretary. But I want there to be sufficient arms to equip General McDowell’s army and the camps of instruction and the forces protecting our borders.”
They all understood the last reference: Kentucky and the West. Lincoln refused to risk a chance misunderstanding. “Look into European purchasing a little more aggressively. Let Mr. Chase mind the dollars.”
Spots of color rose in Cameron’s shriveled cheeks. “Very well, Mr. President.” He wrote several words on the grimy paper and stuffed the scrap in a side pocket. God knew whether he’d ever retrieve it again.
The meeting ended with Cameron promising to assign an assistant secretary to contact agents of foreign arms makers immediately.
“And confer when appropriate with Colonel Ripley,” the President said as he left. He referred to the chief of the Army Ordnance Department headquartered in the Winder Building; like Scott, Ripley was an antique left over from the 1812 war.
Chase and Scott left, each in a better mood because of Cameron’s pretense of pliability. Also, the news from western Virginia was good lately. George McClellan had whipped Robert Lee out there early in June.
The men who had convened today represented two different theories of victory. Scott, who could be seen wincing and growling from the pain of gout induced by his gluttony, some weeks ago had proposed a grand scheme to blockade the entire Confederate coastline, then send gunboats and a large army straight down the Mississippi to capture New Orleans and control the gulf. It was Scott’s intention to isolate the South from the rest of the world. Cut off its supply of essential goods that it couldn’t produce for itself. Surrender would follow quickly and inevitably. Scott capped his argument by promising that his strategy would assure victory with minimum bloodshed.
Lincoln had liked some sections of the design; the blockade had become a reality in April. But the complete plan, which the press had somehow learned about and christened “Scott’s Anaconda,” drew sharp fire from radicals like Chase—they were numerous in the Republican party—who favored a swift, single-stroke triumph. The kind summed up in “Forward to Richmond!”—the slogan heard everywhere, from church pulpits to brothels, or so Stanley was told. Although he constantly craved sex and his wife seldom granted it to him, he was too timid to visit brothels.
Would the Union press on to the Confederate capital? Stanley had little time to speculate because Cameron returned quickly after seeing his visitors out. He gathered Stanley and four other assistants around him and began pulling oddly shaped little papers out of every pocket and rattling off orders. The scrap on which the secretary had jotted the President’s firm command fluttered to the floor unseen.
“And you, Stanley—” Cameron fixed him with those eyes gray as the winter hills his Scottish forebears trod—“we have that meeting late today. The one in regard to uniforms.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”
“We’re to meet that fellow at—let’s see—” He patted his hopsack jacket, hunting another informative scrap.
&
nbsp; “Willard’s, sir. The saloon bar. Six P.M. is the time you set.”
“Yes, six. I don’t have the head for so many details.” His vinegar smile said he wasn’t excessively concerned.
Shortly before six, Stanley and the secretary left the War Department and crossed to the better side of the avenue. Yesterday’s rain had changed the street to a mud pit again. Though he tried to walk carefully, Stanley still got a few spatters on his fawn trousers, which displeased him. In Washington, appearances counted for more than the reality beneath. His wife had taught him that, just as she’d propounded so many other valuable lessons during their married life. Without Isabel, Stanley well knew, he’d be nothing but a mat for his younger brother George to step on whenever he pleased.
The secretary swung his walking stick in a jaunty circle. In the amber of the late afternoon, the shadows of the strollers stretched out ahead. Three boisterous Zouaves, each in scarlet fez and baggy trousers, passed them, trailing beer fumes. One of the Zouaves was a mere boy, who reminded Stanley of his twin sons, Laban and Levi. Fourteen now, they were more than he could handle. Thank God for Isabel.
“—dictated a telegraph message after our meeting this morning,” he heard Cameron say.
“Oh, is that right, sir? To whom?”
“Your brother George. We could use a man of his background in the Ordnance Department. If he will, I’d like him to come to Washington.”
5
STANLEY FELT AS THOUGH he’d been kicked. “You telegraphed—? You want—? My brother George—?”
“To work for the War Department,” the secretary said with a trace of a smirk. “Been mulling the notion for weeks. That drubbing I took this morning settled it. Your brother is one of the big dogs in our state, Stanley. Top of his field—I know the iron and steel trade, don’t forget. Your brother makes things happen. Likes new ideas. He’s the kind who can pump some fresh air into Ordnance. Ripley can’t; he’s a mummy. And his assistant, that other officer—”
“Maynadier,” Stanley whispered with immense effort.
“Yes—well, thanks to them, the President’s handing me poor marks. Those two say no to everything. Lincoln’s interested in rifled shoulder weapons, but Ripley says they’re no good. You know why? Because he’s got nothing stored in his warehouses except a lot of smoothbores.”
Though Cameron often resisted new ideas as strongly as Colonel Ripley did, Stanley was accustomed to his mentor artfully shifting blame. Pennsylvania politics had made him a master at it. Stanley quickly screwed up his nerve to challenge Cameron from another direction. “Mr. Secretary, I admit there’s a need to bring in new people. But why did you telegraph—? That is, we never discussed—”
A sharp glance stopped him. “Come on, my boy. I don’t need your permission to do anything. And I already knew what your reaction would be. Your brother grabbed control of Hazard Iron—took it clean away from you—and it’s galled you ever since.”
Yes, by God, that’s right. I’ve lived in George’s shadow since we were little. Now I’m standing on my own feet at last, and here he comes again. I won’t have it.
Stanley never said any of that. A few more steps and the men turned into the main entrance of Willard’s. Cameron looked merry, Stanley miserable.
The hotel lobby and adjoining public rooms were packed with people, as they were at most hours of the day. Near a roped-off section of wall, one of the Vermont-born Willard brothers argued with a sullen painter. The place smelled of redecorating—paint, plaster—and heavy perfumes. Under the chandeliers, men and women with eyes like glass and faces as stiff as party masks talked soberly, laughed loudly, bent heads so close together that many a pair of foreheads almost touched. Washington in miniature.
Stanley recovered enough to say, “Of course it’s your decision, sir—”
“Yep. Sure is.”
“But I remind you that my brother is not one of your strongest partisans.”
“He’s a Republican, like me.”
“I’m sure he remembers the days when you stood with the Democrats.” Stanley knew George had been particularly infuriated by events at the Chicago convention that had nominated the President. Lincoln’s managers had needed the votes Cameron controlled. The Boss would only trade them for a cabinet post. So it was with certainty that Stanley said, “He’s liable to work against you.”
“He’ll work for me if I manage him right. I know he doesn’t like me, but we’re in a war, and he fought in Mexico—a man like that can’t turn his back on the old flag. ’Sides—” the gray eyes grew foxy—“it’s a lot easier to run a man when he’s right under your thumb. Even setting aside his experience, I’d sooner have your brother right here than back in the Lehigh Valley where he might do me mischief.”
Cameron quickened his step to signal the end of the discussion.
Stanley persisted. “He won’t come.”
“Yes, he will. Ripley’s a stupid old goat ready for pasture. He’s making me look bad. I need George Hazard. What I want, I get.”
With his stick the secretary jabbed one of the swing doors of the saloon bar and passed through. Stanley lumbered after him, seething.
The businessman who had asked for the appointment, some friend of a friend of Cameron’s, was a squat, pink-lipped fellow named Huffsteder. He ordered and paid for the expected round of drinks—a lager for Stanley, whiskey for Cameron—and the trio took a table just vacated by some officers. One recognized Cameron and nodded respectfully. Even Stanley drew an intense, almost startled look from a fat soldier at the bar. Cameron had no fears about meeting here. A good part of the time, the government operated from hotel bars and parlors. The smoke and the level of noise pretty well prevented close observations and eavesdropping.
“Let me come right to the point—” Huffsteder began.
Cameron gave him no chance. “You want a contract. You’re not alone, I’ll tell you that. But I wouldn’t be sitting here if you didn’t deserve—oh, call it an accommodation.” His eyes met those of the other man. “Because of past courtesies. Let’s be no more specific than that. Now, what do you sell?”
“Uniforms. Delivered fast, at the right price.”
“Made where?”
“My factory in Albany.”
“Oh, that’s right. New York. I remember.”
The contract-seeker reached into his coat for a square of coarse fabric dyed dark blue and laid the sample on the table. Stanley picked it up with both hands and easily tore it in two. “Shoddy,” he said. It wasn’t a judgment but the familiar name of material made of pressed wool scraps. Huffsteder said nothing. Cameron fingered one of the pieces. He knew, as did Stanley, that any uniform made of the material would last two or three months; less if the wearer happened to be caught in a heavy rain. Still, it was wartime; the actions of the rebel combinations dictated certain compromises.
Cameron quickly made that evident: “In procurement, Mr. Hoffsteder—” The contractor muttered his correct name, but Cameron ignored him—“the law’s clear as crystal. My department obeys that law. Operates on the bid system—the bids are sealed if the contract’s advertised. On the other hand, I have certain funds at my personal disposal, and I can disburse that money to authorized agents of the War Department for discretionary purchases not dependent on bids. You catch my drift?” Huffsteder nodded. “When our brave boys need overcoats or powder, we can’t be too finicky about law. With the rebs right over there in Virginia, liable to swoop down any minute, we can’t wait for sealed bids to come in, can we? So—” Cameron raised an eloquent hand—“special agents with special funds.”
To be handed to special friends. After just a few months, Stanley understood the system well.
Cameron dropped his pose of eloquence. “Stanley, write the names and addresses of our New York State agents for this gentleman. See either one of them, and I’m sure you can do business.”
“Sir, I can’t thank you enough.”
“But you already did.” Again he fixed the
nervous man with those gray eyes. “I recall the amount of the donation exactly. Handsome, handsome indeed. The sort of donation I’d expect from someone anxious to help the war effort.”
“I’d better write our agents,” Stanley put in.
“Yes, take care of it.” Cameron didn’t need to warn his pupil to use vague language; Stanley had written over a dozen letters of the same type. Cameron rose. “Well, sir, if you’ll excuse me now, I’m off to have supper with my brother. He, too, is serving the cause. Commander of the Seventy-ninth New York. Mostly Scots, those fellows. But you wouldn’t catch me in a Highlander’s kilts. Not with my knees.”
Cameron was away from the table by the time he uttered the jovial remark. Huffsteder remained seated, smiling in a dazed way. Stanley hurried after his boss, thinking a not infrequent thought. If some of the department’s practices ever came to light—Well, he did his best to stay clear of the worst illegalities. He wanted to be in Washington, the center of power, and if the price was the risk of soiled hands, he’d pay it. Besides, Isabel insisted.
In the lobby, he made a final attempt with Cameron. “Sir, before you go—please reconsider about George. Don’t forget he’s one of those West Point peacocks—”
“And I don’t like them or the institution any better than you do, my boy. But I reckon I’ve got to take the squall if I want the baby.”
“Mr. Secretary, I beg you—”
“That’s enough! Don’t you hear me?”
Several heads turned. Reddening over his outburst, Cameron grabbed Stanley’s sleeve and yanked him toward an empty settee. “You come over here. James will be sore when I’m late, but I want to get something straight.”
Oh, my God, he’s going to discharge me—