Love and War

by John Jakes

  George puffed his cigar. “You know, I can’t forget that I hit Stanley after the train wreck. Maybe this is justice. Maybe it’s my punishment.”

  “Did you notice how friendly the secretary was?” Stanley exclaimed one Saturday night in July. Their carriage was taking them home from a Shakespearean performance at Leonard Graver’s new theater on the site of the old National on E Street. “Did you notice that, Isabel?”

  “Why shouldn’t Stanton be cordial? You’re one of his best employees. He knows he can trust you.”

  Stanley preened. Could it be true? The evidence certainly pointed that way. He was on good terms with the dogmatic but unquestionably patriotic secretary, at the same time maintaining friendly relations with Wade, to whom he occasionally passed bits of information about confidential War Department matters. Lashbrook’s was prospering beyond all expectations, and Stanley was now anticipating a trip to New Orleans, there to establish additional trading contracts of a sensitive but potentially lucrative nature. He was making the world not merely his oyster but a whole plate of them. Strange how a savage war could change a man’s life so greatly.

  There were only a few aspects of Stanley’s role of fierce Republican that he didn’t like. He mentioned one to Isabel when they got to bed that night.

  “The Confiscation Act’s to be signed this week. The slaves will be freed in captured territory, and use of colored troops approved. But there’s more coming. Stanton told me so during the second intermission, while you were in the toilet.”

  “Don’t utter that word in my presence. Tell me what you learned from Stanton.”

  “The President’s drafting an executive order.” Stanley paused to achieve an effect. “He wants to free all the slaves.”

  “My God. Are you sure?”

  “Well, all of them in the Confederacy at least. I don’t believe he’ll touch slavery in Kentucky or the other border states.”

  “Ah. I didn’t think he was that much of an idealist. It won’t be a humanitarian measure, then, but a punitive one.” She continued, grudgingly, “Lincoln has all the charm of a pig, but I’ll give him this: he’s a shrewd politician.”

  “How can you say that, Isabel? Do you want mobs of freed niggers swarming into the North? Think of the unrest. Think of the jobs decent white men will lose. The whole idea’s scandalous.”

  “You’d better keep that opinion private if you want to keep the friendship of Stanton and Ben Wade.”

  “But—”

  “Stop, Stanley. When you dine at the devil’s house, you can’t choose the menu. Play your part. The loyal Republican.”

  He did, although it galled him to hear all the talk of emancipation suddenly flying through the offices and corridors, the parlors and saloon bars of official and unofficial Washington. Lincoln’s radical proposal offended many whites who got wind of it, and it was sure to cause social upheaval if it were implemented. Stanley obeyed his wife, however, and kept his views to himself.

  Except on one subject. He invited his brother to dine at Willard’s, so he could gloat.

  “I wouldn’t devote much time to that Board of Visitors, George. If Ben Wade and some others have their way, this time next year West Point will be nothing but abandoned buildings and memories.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “There will be no more appropriations to operate that place. It’s provided a free education to traitors, but what has it given our side? One general reportedly drunk as a lord at Shiloh, another so egotistical and inept he couldn’t win against an army half the size of his. I could also mention—a host of—lesser—”

  The sentence became mumbling; George had laid his fork next to the slab of venison and was glaring.

  “You said this was a social occasion. No politics. I should have known better than to believe you.”

  He walked out, leaving Stanley with the bill.

  Stanley didn’t mind. He felt expansive that day; affluent—even handsome. He had just achieved a nice little triumph. His strutting brother’s precious institution was doomed, and there was not one damn thing he could do about it.

  She was black and beautiful. Coppered oak, over two hundred feet long from bowsprit to stern. A single low stack amidships enhanced her rakish appearance. The red of her shield figurehead and the gilt of her stern carvings were her only vivid colors.

  Cooper knew her intimately and loved her without reservation. She was a steam barkentine, a thousand and fifty tons, with two oscillating engines of three hundred and fifty horsepower driving a single propeller that could be raised from the water to reduce drag. Her three masts could be donkey-rigged with plenty of canvas. She lay in the Mersey this twenty-ninth day of July with everything from bedding to galley stores in place and her full crew aboard.

  A stream of carriages discharged passengers on the cobblestones of the pier. Bulloch greeted each local businessman or officeholder by name; all had been invited—hastily—for an afternoon’s excursion on Number 209.

  Captain Butcher, lately second officer on the Royal Mail vessel Arabia, had steam up and was waiting for the last few guests. They might or might not arrive before the order that Bulloch’s spies had reported to be on the way from Whitehall: the ship was to be prevented from sailing because her ultimate mission violated British law.

  Bulloch maintained a fine front, smiling and chatting as he saw guests to the gangway and directed them to refreshments on trestle tables beneath a striped awning. Cooper paced the pier, snapping his watch open every couple of minutes. If they didn’t get away—if Charles Francis Adams succeeded—this beautiful, invaluable commerce raider would be lost to the Confederacy.

  A clerk hovering close to Bulloch showed him a list. “All but these two gentlemen are present, sir.”

  “We shall go without them.”

  Up the gangway he went, past the seamen recruited from Cunard and other lines to sail Number 209 on the first leg of her voyage. Suddenly, beyond some dockworkers, Cooper saw a hack careen through Canning Street, heading for the ship. From the foot of the gangway, he called, “Our last guests may be here, James.”

  Quickly, Bulloch stepped to the helm and spoke to young Captain Batcher, whose light whiskers danced in the Mersey breeze. The hack rattled along the pier, slowing. Before it came to a stop, a man jumped out. Cooper’s stomach wrenched as he recognized Maguire. Preceded by the smell of leeks, Marcellus Dorking also appeared.

  The sight of the man enraged Cooper. Since that afternoon in the Pig and Whistle, he had been followed intermittently by several different spies, all of whom undoubtedly worked for Tom Dudley. Of Dorking, however, he had seen no sign. The threat against Cooper’s family had been nothing but air; a coward’s way of inspiring fear. That lowered Dorking even further in Cooper’s estimation.

  Maguire and Dorking bolted toward Cooper, who barred the gangway. Dorking’s right hand dipped into the pocket of his garish plaid coat. “Little pleasure cruise, sir?” he asked with his familiar smarmy smile.

  “That’s right. As you can see, we have local dignitaries on board.”

  “Be that as it may, we must request that you delay your departure. A train should be arriving at Lime Street right about now bearing a gentleman who wishes to speak with the captain about certain improprieties that—”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” Cooper interrupted. He started up the gangway.

  “Just a minute.” Dorking grabbed Cooper’s shoulder and roughly turned him around. A couple of seamen called warnings to Butcher. The invited guests murmured and frowned.

  Bulloch started down to help Cooper, too late. Marcellus Dorking produced a small silver pistol and shoved it into Cooper’s stomach, indenting his waistcoat half an inch.

  “Stand aside while we speak to the master of this vessel.”

  Cooper had never been so scared or so directly confronted with the threat of violent death. Yet that was somehow less important than the need to get Number 209 to her destination. Dorking reali
zed his pistol was in view and tried to hide it from those on deck. As the muzzle dipped down, Cooper stamped on Dorking’s shoe.

  “Bleeding Christ,” Dorking cried, staggering. Maguire tried to strike Cooper, who pushed him, then gave Dorking a knee in the crotch. Consul Dudley’s agents spilled onto the cobbles like ill-trained acrobats.

  Energized by his success in the face of danger, Cooper loped up the gangway, shouting at Dorking and Maguire, “Invited guests only on this cruise, gentlemen.” He passed seamen at the rail. “Take up the gangway.”

  Captain Butcher bellowed orders. The dockworkers who had watched the fray with puzzled amusement cast off the lines on the double. There was consternation among the guests.

  Brown water began to show between the hull and the pier. Maguire regained his feet, then Dorking, who went for the pistol again. “My word,” said a guest behind Cooper. There were other, less polite oaths.

  Dorking raised the pistol, a flicker of silver in the summer sunshine. Maguire dragged his arm down. Dorking glared at Cooper, who gripped the rail and yelled, “It never pays to brag, Mr. Dorking. It never pays to say you’ll do something when you can’t. I hope you didn’t tell Dudley you’d stop us.”

  “Keep quiet,” Bulloch said behind him. Red, Cooper turned, ready to apologize. Only he could see Bulloch’s smile or hear him whisper, “Sharp work.” Swiftly, he returned to the guests, who swarmed around him asking questions.

  The figures of Maguire and Dorking receded. Cooper relaxed at the rail, surprised at the quickness of his reactions. He was pleased with himself.

  The river shone like gold; the air was salty and not too hot; a perfect afternoon. Bulloch promised to answer all questions shortly but first urged the guests to help themselves to French champagne and the delicacies he had ordered to support the illusion of an innocent outing. When a measure of calm returned, he politely asked for attention and stepped into the sunshine just beyond the awning shadow. From there he addressed the passengers.

  “We trust you will all enjoy your cruise on the vessel variously known in Liverpool and Birkenhead as Enrica or Laird’s 209. She will have her real name soon. We want you to be perfectly comfortable this afternoon. Eat and drink as much as you like and try not to let that unpleasantness on the pier bother you. I must be honest and confess that your return journey will be aboard a tug awaiting us down the coast at Anglesey.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dammit, Bulloch, what subterfuge are you—?”

  “Bloody trick, that’s what it—”

  “A regrettable necessity, gentlemen,” Bulloch said, his deep Georgian voice overriding the protests. “On Sunday we were warned that if this ship remained in the Mersey another forty-eight hours, she’d be impounded. Lost to our cause. You’ll have no trouble with the authorities if you simply tell the truth. You were invited on a cruise, which you are now taking. The only difference is, your cruise ship won’t be the vessel taking you back to Liverpool. For that, I accept all blame.”

  “Are the rumors true, then? Was this vessel built illegally?”

  “She was built in scrupulous conformity with British law, sir.”

  “That’s no answer,” someone else said. “Where’s she bound?”

  “Up the Irish Channel and then to a port I am not at liberty to name. Ultimately, she will sail in American waters with a different crew.”

  Cooper felt a strange thrill up his spine—unexpected as his own clumsy bravery at dockside. What a remarkable change had come over him, scarcely noticed, since those days when he had debated the folly of secession and war with anyone who would listen. He was proud of this ship and proud of his part in getting her to sea. He was proud of her name, which Bulloch had confided to him; it was to be Alabama. He was proud to stand on her spanking new deck as she headed down the glittering Mersey to the destination Bulloch quietly announced to the stunned guests.

  “She is going to war.”

  While the Confederate ship escaped to the Isle of Anglesey, George was en route to Massachusetts, having first stopped at Lehigh Station for a day and a half. He had conferred with Jupe Smith, who informed him that the legislature now looked on the bank charter application with great favor—“What a surprise,” George muttered—and spent seven hours with Wotherspoon inspecting the books, the manufacturing areas, and samples of Hazard’s current output. Before he left, he saw the Hungarian couple and their black charges—fifteen of them now. To relieve her loneliness, Brett said, she sometimes helped Mr. and Mrs. Czorna care for the children. It was the only time during the visit that George saw a sign of animation in his sister-in-law.

  After unsuccessfully trying to doze while sitting upright on the train all night, George was exhausted when he reached Braintree. Old Sylvanus Thayer allowed him three hours in a comfortable bed, then woke him and served a breakfast more like a banquet. Usually a Spartan eater, George put away six fried eggs, four slices of ham, and six biscuits at five o’clock of a hot summer afternoon. While he ate, Thayer talked.

  “Scapegoats, George. Men need them most—they are driven to find them—when matters are out of control and somehow cannot be set right. The human animal is willful and frequently stupid. Blame is often placed where it doesn’t belong simply because any explanation of chaos, however ludicrous, is better than none, and people would go mad without one. I do not claim that is always the case. In the war, the army was the focus of blame, and rightly so.” For Thayer, there was always and only one war: the last fought against Britain. “Now, however, I believe the tide’s flowing the other way. I take your brother’s warning seriously.”

  He tapped a copy of Harper’s pulled from under recent issues of the New York Tribune. “This noxious rag—and Greeley’s paper—are both demanding the Academy close forever. Great men have come from our school, but that’s of no consequence. The army is failing again, and someone or something must be put up on the cross.”

  George finished his coffee and lit a cigar. “I get so damn sick of them saying we trained the enemy.”

  “I know, I know.” Thayer’s hands, white as the fine linen cloth covering the table, clenched. Dark blue veins rose up on the backs of them. “We have also trained many accomplished officers who have remained loyal. Alas, for all his effort and sincerity, the President can’t seem to utilize them properly. Perhaps he interferes too much, as they say Davis does. That is an observation, not an excuse for inaction. We cannot avoid the inescapable, George. West Point is at war.”

  He plucked the cigar from his mouth. “What’s that, sir?”

  “At war. Those of us who love the place must campaign as if the enemy has formidable leadership—which it does—” He whacked Greeley’s newspaper. “We must fight with intelligence, zeal, our whole soul—and never admit to even the remotest possibility of defeat. We shall not cower. We shall not wait passively to have our position overwhelmed. We shall mount an offensive.”

  “I’d agree with that strategy, Colonel. But what are the tactics?”

  The old man’s eyes sparkled. “We do not hide our light under a bushel. We promote our past—our performance on behalf of the republic in Mexico and on the frontier. We trumpet our case and our cause. We whisper into influential ears. We twist reluctant arms. We knock resistant heads. We attack, George—”

  Thump went the fist on the table.

  “Attack. Attack. Attack!”

  They talked on into the night. Graduates and friends of West Point had to be recruited to speak or write in defense of it. George would send letters to six members of the Board of Visitors, and Thayer would do the same with the other ten. On the spot, George decided to visit the Academy on his way home. He didn’t put his head down till half-past three, but Thayer was up an hour ahead of him, at six-thirty, and saw him to the station. Even on the noisy platform, Thayer’s mind kept working.

  “What influential allies have we in the Congress. Any at all?”

  “The chief one I can think of is Wade’s fellow senator from
Ohio—Cump Sherman’s brother, John. He and Wade don’t particularly like each other.”

  “Cultivate Senator Sherman,” Thayer urged as he pumped George’s hand. George felt as though he had received marching orders. Thayer was still bobbing along beside the car calling suggestions as the train pulled out.

  After a brief stop at Cold Spring and some mutual complaining with Benét, George crossed the Hudson to the Plain and began campaigning there. Professor Mahan promised to step up his writing about the institution. Captain Edward Boynton, a classmate of George’s and Orry’s who had returned as adjutant, said he would rush completion of the manuscript of his history of West Point, incorporating rebuttals of its critics into the final text. Washington-bound again on a crowded, sooty train, George felt a little better; the offensive was under way.

  He hoped it hadn’t been launched too late. The appropriation would come up in Congress early next year. They had less than six months to conduct and win their small war while the larger one rumbled along a murky road whose end no one could see.

  Returning to duty, George found criticism of the army more ferocious than ever. Old Brains Halleck had been summoned from the West to be supreme commander. McClellan still had the Army of the Potomac, largely a Washington defense force now, and John Pope had been given the Army of Northern Virginia as a consequence of his success at Island No. 10. Pope quickly alienated most of his men by observing that soldiers in the western theater were tougher and fought harder. He then remarked that he was a commander who could be counted on to take the field; he would keep his headquarters in the saddle. Wags turned headquarters into hindquarters.

  Lincoln’s Negro policies were causing fights in saloons and army camps. The only part of the Confiscation Act anyone seemed to like was that encouraging emigration of freedmen to some unspecified country in the tropics. “There’s all this talk of emancipation, and we’re not ready for it,” George said to his wife. “No one believes in it.”

  “They should.”