by John Jakes
“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 boardinghouse, 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.”
&
nbsp; “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.”