by John Jakes
“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 Frémont’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 ign
ored 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.”