by John Jakes
“This is not a pleasant time or a pleasant world,” he replied, cold and aloof suddenly. A droplet hung quivering on the end of his nose. He disposed of it with a slash of his soaked sleeve. “As Stephen says, it is no laughing matter to have the fate of the Confederacy in the hands of soldiers with swollen vanities in place of brains.”
“Stephen.” She snapped the book shut, held it with hands gone white. “That’s all I ever hear from you—Stephen—unless you’re cursing your sister.”
“Where’s Marie-Louise?”
“Where do you suppose she’d be at this hour? She’s in bed. Cooper—”
“I don’t want to argue.” He turned away.
“But something’s happened to you. You don’t seem to have any feeling left for me, your daughter—for anything except that damned department.”
One of his slender hands closed on the frame of the parlor door. He sniffed again, head lowered slightly. The way he gazed at her from under his eyebrows frightened her.
“Something did happen to me,” he said softly. “My son drowned. Because of this war, my sister’s greed, and your refusal to remain in Nassau. Now kindly let me alone so I can eat.”
In the kitchen, seated near the cold stove, he cut into the liver, ate three bites, and threw the rest away. He went to their bedroom, lit the gas, and shut the door. After undressing, he piled two coverlets on, but still couldn’t get warm.
Presently Judith came in. She undressed, put out the lamp, and climbed in beside him. He lay with his back to her, his face to the wall. She was careful not to touch him. He thought he heard her crying but didn’t turn over. He fell asleep thinking of the drawings of the fish ship.
Once a week, Madeline repeated her invitation to dinner. Near the end of May, Judith finally prevailed on Cooper to stay away from the Navy Department for one evening. At four o’clock on the appointed day, he sent a message home saying he would be late. His hack didn’t arrive on Marshall Street until half past eight.
In the spacious rooms on the top floor, the brothers embraced. “How are you, Cooper?” Orry smelled whiskey and was dismayed by the sight of his pale, disheveled guest.
“Very busy at the department.” The reply made Judith frown.
“What sort of work goes on there?” Madeline asked as she led them in to the table set with lighted candles. She was anxious to serve the meal before it was ruined.
“We’re engaged in the job of killing Yankees.”
Orry started to laugh, then realized the remark was meant seriously. Judith stared at the floor, unable to conceal a look of distress. Madeline glanced at her husband as if to say, Is he drunk?
Murmuring a pretext—“May I help?”—Judith followed her hostess to the hot kitchen.
Madeline raised the lid of a steaming pot. “Can you conceive of greens selling for three and a half dollars a peck?”
The false cheer failed. Judith glanced at the closed door and said, “I must apologize for Cooper. He isn’t himself.”
Madeline replaced the lid and faced her sister-in-law. “Judith, the poor man acts like he’s ready to explode. What’s wrong?”
“He’s working too hard—the way he did when Star of Carolina was on the verge of failure.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?”
Judith avoided her eyes. “No. But I mustn’t say anything. I promised I wouldn’t. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.”
Presently the four were seated with their food—the greens, a few potatoes sliced and fried, and the entree, a stringy saddle of lamb Madeline had purchased at one of the small farmers’ markets springing up on the outskirts of the city. “Orry will pour claret, or water, if you prefer that. I refuse to serve that vile concoction of ground peanuts they’re selling as coffee.”
“They’re selling a great many strange things,” Judith said. “Pokeberry juice for writing ink—” She stopped as Cooper thrust his glass toward his brother. Orry poured it half full of claret, but Cooper didn’t draw his hand back. The goblet sparkled in the candlelight. Orry cleared his throat and filled it full.
“Some—” Cooper gulped half of the claret, dribbling dark drops on his already-stained shirt bosom “—some in this town drink real coffee and write with real ink. Some can pay for those things.” He stared at his brother. “Our sister, for one.”
“Is that right?” Madeline said with forced lightness. Cooper’s stare was sullen, his speech slurred. Something ugly was in the air.
“I’ll grant you Ashton lives in a fine house,” Orry said. “And on the few occasions when I’ve seen her on the street, she’s always been handsomely dressed—Worth of Paris or something equivalent. I can’t imagine how she affords it on Huntoon’s salary. Most clerks in the government make a pittance.”
Cooper drew a long, raspy breath. Judith clenched her hands beneath the table. The shout of a water seller reached them through open front windows, then the creak of his wagon. “I can tell you how they afford luxuries, Orry. They’re profiteers.”
Madeline’s mouth formed a little o. Orry put down the fork with greens. “That’s a serious accusation.”
“I was on her ship, God damn it!”
“Dear,” Judith began, “perhaps we’d better—”
“It’s time they knew.”
“What ship do you mean?” Orry said. “The blockade-runner that went down? The one you—?”
“Yes, I mean Water Witch. Ashton and her husband owned a substantial interest in it. The owners issued standing orders for the skipper to run the blockade at all hazards. We did, and I lost my son.”
He shoved back hair hanging over his forehead, and in the midst of all the shocks, Madeline noticed for the first time that Cooper was going gray. “For Christ’s sake, Orry, either pour the wine or pass it here.”
Noticeably upset, Orry filled Cooper’s glass again. “Who else knows about Ashton and James?”
“The other owners, I suppose. I never heard their names. The only man on the ship who seemed privy to the information was the skipper, Ballantyne, and he went down like—” Cooper’s face wrenched. The memory was too hard to articulate.
He drank. Stared at the flame of the candle in front of him. “I’d like to kill her,” he said, bringing the empty goblet down so hard the stem snapped.
Everyone stared. “Excuse me,” Cooper said, bolting from his chair. It fell backward with a crash. He flung out his hand to prevent a collision with the wall and lurched to the parlor. He managed to reach the settee before he passed out.
They heard a rain shower starting. A sudden breeze set the candle flames in motion. Judith again apologized for Cooper’s behavior. Stricken, Orry said apology was unnecessary. “But I hope he didn’t mean that last remark.”
“I’m sure he didn’t. The loss of Judah was grievous for both of us, but it seems to have done special damage to him.”
Orry sighed. “All his life he’s expected the world to be better than it is. People with that kind of idealism get hurt worst of all. I hope he won’t do anything rash, Judith. Ashton has already failed at the one thing she wanted most in Richmond—to belong to the best circles. I expect punishment for the profiteering will find her eventually. If he tries to judge and sentence her”—he glanced over his shoulder at the sad scarecrow figure on the settee—“he’ll only harm himself.”
The wind gusted, lifting the parlor curtains, stirring the gray-streaked hair on Cooper’s forehead. Judith said, “I try to tell him that. It does no good. He’s drinking heavily, as you surely noticed. I fear what he might do sometime when he’s had too much.”
Softly said, the words put dread into Orry. The three sat in silence, listening to the rain come down on the roof and the ruins of the evening.
Copies of the Richmond Enquirer reached the Winder Building every week. One issue, which George read with mingled curiosity and sadness, contained several long articles describing Jackson’s funeral. On an inside page was a list of high-ranking military officers who had marched
in the procession. Among the names he discovered that of his best friend.
“There it is—Colonel Orry Main,” he said to Constance, showing her the paper that night. “He’s listed with others from the War Department.”
“Does that mean he’s in Richmond?”
“I assume so. Whatever he’s doing, I’m sure it’s more important than interviewing lunatics and reading the fine print in contracts.”
With a touch of regret, she said, “Your guilt’s getting the best of you again.”
He folded the paper. “Yes, it is. Daily.”
Homer stepped into the dining room, pausing beside the open-fronted cabinet that contained Ashton’s fine blue jasperware. Water Witch had brought the set from Britain on her penultimate voyage.
Huntoon took off his spectacles. “Mr. Main? Which one? Orry?”
As always, it was Ashton to whom the elderly Negro addressed the reply. “No. The other one.”
“Cooper? Why, James, I had no idea he was in Richmond.”
Thunder boomed in the northwest; bluish light glittered throughout the downstairs. It was June, muggy, the town astir with rumors of an impending invasion of the North by General Lee.
“He is here, he is very definitely here,” said a thick voice from the shadows outside the dining room. Into the doorway stepped a frightening figure—Cooper, right enough, but aged since Ashton had last seen him. Horribly aged and gray. His cheeks had a waxy pallor, and his whiskey stench rolled over the table like a wave, submerging the aroma of the bowl of fresh flowers in the center. “He’s here and anxious to see how his dear sister and her husband are enjoying their newfound wealth.”
“Cooper dear—” Ashton began, sensing danger, trying to turn it aside with a treacly smile. Cooper refused to let her say more.
“Very fine house you have. Splendid furnishings. Treasury salaries must be larger than those in the Navy Department. Must be enormous.”
Trembling, Huntoon clutched the arms of his chair. With a laconic hand, Cooper reached toward the open shelves. Ashton’s fist clenched when he plucked out one of the delicately shaded blue plates.
“Lovely stuff, this. Surely you didn’t buy it locally. Did it come in on a blockade-runner? In place of guns and ammunition for the army, perhaps—?”
He threw the plate down with great force. Splinters of the white Greek figure embossed in the center rebounded into the light. One struck the back of Huntoon’s hand. He muttered a protest no one heard.
Ashton said, “Brother dear, I am at a loss to explain your visit or your churlish behavior. Furthermore, while you’re as disagreeable as you ever were, I am astounded to hear what sounds like patriotic maundering. You used to scorn James when he gave speeches in support of secession or states’ rights. But here you are, sounding like the hottest partisan of Mr. Davis.”
She forced a smile, hoping to hide the fear inside. She didn’t know this man. She was in the presence of a lunatic whose intentions she could not guess. Without reacting, she saw Homer edging toward Cooper behind his right shoulder. Good.
Ashton placed her elbows on the table and cushioned her chin on her hands. Her smile became a sneer. “When did this remarkable transformation to patriot occur, may I ask?”
“It occurred,” Cooper said above the muttering storm, “shortly after my son drowned.”
Ashton’s control melted into astonishment. “Judah—drowned? Oh, Cooper, how perfectly—”
“We were aboard Water Witch. Nearing Wilmington. The moon was out, the Union blockading squadron present in force. I pleaded with Captain Ballantyne not to risk the run, but he insisted. The owners had issued orders. Maximum risk for maximum earnings.”
Ashton’s hand fell forward. Her skin felt as if it were frozen.
“You know the rest, Ashton. My son was sacrificed to your intense devotion to the cause—”
“Stop him, Homer,” she screamed as Cooper moved. Huntoon started to rise from his chair. Cooper struck the side of his head and knocked his glasses off.
Homer seized Cooper from behind and yelled for help. Using an elbow, Cooper punched him in the stomach, breaking his hold, shouting over a thunderclap, “The cause of profit. Your own fucking, filthy greed.” He laid hands on the display cabinet and pulled.
The delicate blue plates and cups and saucers and bowls began to slide. Ashton screamed again as the Wedgwood pieces dropped, Greek heads exploding, Greek arms and legs breaking. Lightning shimmered. The cabinet fell onto the dining table, where its weight proved too much. The table legs gave way at Huntoon’s end. He shrieked as broken jasperware and candle holders and the flower bowl rushed toward him.
The flowers spilled onto his waistcoat. The water soaked his trousers as he kicked and pushed, sliding the chair away, out of danger, while two housemen joined Homer and wrestled the cursing, ranting Cooper to the front door. There they flung him into the rain.
Ashton heard the door slam and said the first thing that came to mind. “What if he tells what he knows?”
“What if he does?” Huntoon snarled. He picked blossoms from his wet crotch. “There was no law against what we did. And we’re out of the trade now.”
“Did you see how white his hair’s gotten? I think he’s gone mad.”
“He’s certainly dangerous,” Huntoon said. “We must buy pistols tomorrow in case—in case—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. Ashton surveyed the Wedgwood all over the floor. One cup had survived unbroken. She wanted to weep with rage. Lightning flashed, thunder shook the wet windows, and her mouth set.
“Yes, pistols,” she agreed. “For each of us.”
81
AT SEVEN THAT SAME night, Thursday, in the first week of June, Bent reported to Colonel Baker’s office as ordered. Baker wasn’t there. Another detective said he had gone to Old Capitol Prison to conduct one of his interrogations of an unfriendly journalist who was under detention. “He’ll go from there to his hour of pistol practice. He wouldn’t let a day pass without that.”
Bent settled down to wait, soothing his nerves with one of several apples bought from a street vendor. After two bites, he looked again at a small silver badge pinned to the reverse of his lapel. Baker had awarded the badge, which bore the embossed words NATIONAL DETECTIVE BUREAU, after Bent’s return from Richmond. His success there had earned him the token of official acceptance into Baker’s organization. The colonel had been especially pleased by the return of the money paid to the albino. Bent stated that he had rendered the spy harmless because he was no longer useful, but he was vague about details and didn’t specifically say he had killed him. Baker asked no questions.
Despite the acceptance that the badge signified, Bent had been feeling bad for the past few days. He had caught the moods of the town—apprehension, despondency. Hooker’s fighting spirit had proved as substantial as the contents of a glass of water. And while Lee had lost a mighty ally when Jackson fell, he had won not only a splendid victory at Chancellorsville but an ominous supremacy over the minds of many Northerners in and out of the army. There were now daily rumors and alarms out of Virginia. Lee was moving again, but in which direction, no one knew.
Bent was masticating his third apple when Baker reined up outside a window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. An orderly took Baker’s horse, an unruly bay stallion the colonel had nicknamed Slasher. Humming cheerily, Baker strode into the office. He handed Bent a crudely printed broadside. “You may find a chuckle or two in that, Dayton.” Fancy type on the front announced that this was the menu for the Hotel de Vicksburg. When he opened the piece, he understood the joke. The broadside contained the menu of a city under siege.
Soup: mule tail
Roast: saddle of mule, à l’armée
Entrees: mule head, stuffed à la Reb;
mule beef, jerked à la Yankie
Pastry: cottonwood-berry pie, à la ironclad
Liquors: Mississippi water, vintage 1492, very superior
Any diners not satisfied with
the starvation fare are welcome to apply to
JEFF DAVIS & CO., PROPRIETORS
“Very amusing,” Bent said because Baker expected it. “Where did this come from, sir?”
“O’Dell brought it back from Richmond last night. He saw large masses of troops moving west of Fredericksburg, by the way. There’s truth in those rumors. Lee’s up to something—ah!” Among some mail, he found a piece that he immediately tucked in his pocket. “A letter from Jennie.” Baker’s wife was living with her parents in Philadelphia for the duration.
The man Baker had mentioned, Fatty O’Dell, was another agent. “I didn’t realize we had someone else on a mission down there.”
“Yes,” Baker replied, but didn’t elaborate. That was his style. Only he knew all the operatives and what each was doing.
Baker leaned back and clasped hands behind his head. “That broadside is enlightening about attitudes toward Jeff Davis. It helps corroborate something Fatty got wind of from third parties. A Richmond speculator named Powell is agitating very openly against Davis.”
Bent picked a bit of apple from his lip. “That sort of thing’s been going on for a year or more, hasn’t it?”
“Absolutely right. This time, however, there’s an unusual wrinkle. Fatty said Mr. Powell’s pronouncements include talk of forming an independent Confederate state at some unspecified location.”
“God above—that is new.”
“I wish you would not take the Lord’s name in vain. I like it as little as I liked those filthy yellow-backed books I confiscated and burned some months ago.”
“Sorry, Colonel,” Bent said hastily. “The information surprised me, that’s all. What’s the speculator’s name again?”
“Lamar Powell.”
“I never heard it mentioned when I was in Richmond. Nor any new Confederacy, for that matter.”
“It may be nothing more than street gossip. If they impeached Davis, it would help our cause. It would help even more if they strung him up. And I’d be the first to applaud. But it’s probably a vain hope.”