Love and War

by John Jakes

  “How will you do that?” Constance asked, skeptical.

  George looked at her. “By doing what he did when he wrote me last year. Break the law.”

  Out of uniform and wearing a dark overcoat, he rode south through a mid-March snowfall two nights later. He reached Port Tobacco after eight and paid the sly, toothless man who was waiting for him the sum of twenty dollars, gold. He gave the man a letter addressed to Orry, and a warning.

  “You must give this to Colonel Main without drawing attention to him or to the act of delivery.”

  “Don’t fret, Major Hazard. It’ll be done just that way. I deliver secret mail into offices all around Capitol Square. You’d be astonished at how many.”

  And with the wink of the experienced profiteer, he slipped out the tavern’s back door into the blowing snow.

  Grant had come to Washington at the first of the month. His hard hand was already being felt. A huge campaign would start in the spring, perhaps the final one. Fewer men would be exchanged because slowing paroles or stopping them entirely hurt the South more than it hurt the North.

  Meantime, George and Brett and Constance waited. George had said nothing to Stanley about the illegal letter. When informed of Billy’s capture last fall, Stanley had expressed only perfunctory sorrow.

  George seldom saw his older brother these days. The war had transformed Stanley into a man of enormous personal wealth and a degree of importance in the radical Republican faction. It had also transformed him, incomprehensibly, into a person almost constantly under the influence of spirits. Stanley would have been dismissed, literally and otherwise, as a mere drunkard had he not been rich. Instead, he was tolerated by most and avoided by some, George being among the latter.

  George had given up on Virgilia in much the same way. He had sent a letter to her hospital at Aquia Creek, reporting Billy’s capture. She didn’t reply. Fearing the chaos of the mails, he wrote again. The second time, he decided the silence was deliberate.

  As spring drew closer, one of George’s worries was relieved. He received orders to report for duty with the Military Railroad Construction Corps on the first of the month.

  “I’ll be working for old McCallum of the Erie instead of Herman, but at least it’s field duty. No more contracts, crazed inventors, water-walkers—Winder Building!” He gave Constance a hug as they lay in bed the night he got the news. He felt her shiver, quickly added, “Don’t fret over this. I’ll be in no danger.”

  “Of course you’ll be in danger,” she said, a certain rare note in her voice, which told him something unusual was happening. He touched her cheek and found it damp.

  She took the hand in hers. “But I shall pack up our things, dutifully return to Lehigh Station, and try to pretend otherwise.”

  Taking him by surprise, she shifted his hand to her breast and pressed it there. “If you’d make love to me, I might be able to sleep tonight.”

  He laughed softly, nuzzled her neck. “À pleasure, dear lady.”

  “Portly as I am?”

  “Portly is in the eye of the beholder. If you call yourself portly, then portly’s perfect.”

  “Oh, George—you are such a dear man. You can be obstinate. You’re short-tempered. Sometimes even a bit vain. And it’s impossible for me not to love you.”

  “Wait now—just a minute—” During the last part of her affectionate little speech, he had done a great lot of rolling and thrashing and flinging of bedclothes, propping himself at last on one elbow. “Since when do I deserve to be called vain?”

  “You know as well as I that age is affecting your eyesight. Every evening I watch you bring the Star so close to your nose you almost poke a hole in the paper. But you won’t admit you need spectacles—George, don’t snort or harrumph like Stanley. What I said was all part of paying you a compliment. Heaven knows neither of us is perfect, but I was clumsily trying to say you could have a thousand faults instead of your one or two, and I’d still love you.”

  He cleared his throat, paused, then did it again. She could hear the smile in his voice as he relaxed and reached for her waist, drawing her in.

  “Well,” he said, “you’d better. And right away, too.”

  George exploded when the toothless man showed up in the Winder Building next morning.

  “Good God, what possessed you to come here?” He shoved the courier toward the stairs, past the usual collection of contract-seekers and saviors of the Union who continued to treat the department as a second home.

  “’Cause I thought you’d want this right away.” The man dangled a soiled and wrinkled envelope in front of his client. “It was waiting at the Richmond drop day ’fore yesterday.”

  “Not so loud,” George whispered, scarlet. A brigadier coming upstairs cast a distrustful eye on the scruffy visitor. “I suppose you also brought it here expecting extra pay.”

  “Yessir, that did enter my mind. That’s what this yere war’s all about, ain’t it? A chance for the enterprising fellow to make himself comfortable for the future—”

  “Get out of here,” George said, jamming bills in the courier’s land.

  “Hey, these are greenbacks. I only take—”

  “It’s those or nothing.” Snatching Orry’s letter, he rushed back to his office.

  He didn’t dare read it there. Allowing time for the courier to leave the building, George put on his hat and escaped to Willard’s. Seated at a rear table with beer he didn’t want, he opened the letter. His hands shook.

  Stump, it began. No names this time, except the old ones from the Academy. Orry was smart as ever, George thought, embarrassing tears in his eyes for a moment. He wiped them away and read on.

  The party about whom you asked is here in Libby. I saw him day before yesterday, though from a distance only, because I did not want my interest to attract notice. I report to you sorrowfully that he appears to have been ill used by some of the bullies who staff the prison. I would guess he was beaten; he hobbles with the aid of a crutch, and I saw bruises.

  But he is alive and whole. Take heart at that. I shall attempt to locate a certain trooper of our acquaintance and, between us, we shall see what can be done. Old bonds of affection must count for something, even in these blighted times.

  It would be unwise for us to risk communication again, unless either finds it absolutely necessary. Do not be alarmed by prolonged silence from here. An effort will be made.

  My dear wife joins me in sending warmest felicitations to you and your family, and a prayer that we may all survive this terrible struggle. I sometimes fear the nation will be riven for years following a surrender—and if that word startles you, know that I do not employ it carelessly. The South is beaten. Shortages, dissent, wholesale army desertions all witness to the truth of the statement, though I might likely be hung if anyone but you read it.

  We may succeed in prolonging matters a while yet, inflicting further grief on those directly and indirectly involved, but it is essentially a concluded matter. Your side has won. Now we can only extract a high blood price for that victory. A sad state of affairs.

  My fondest hope is that whatever gulf exists after a surrender will never be so wide as to keep you and me and our respective families from bridging it once again.

  Emotionally shattered by what he was reading, George gulped the beer he didn’t want. Flashing images in his head brought back the fiery night in April ’61. The ruined house. The charred and swollen bodies. The harm beyond hope of repair. The fear was crawling in him again. Some moments passed before he had the courage to complete the letter.

  God preserve you and yours. We shall do our utmost for the person in question.

  Yrs. affectionately, Stick

  “An effort will be made.” Brett clasped the letter between her breasts. “Oh, George, there it is, in Orry’s own hand. An effort will be made!”

  “Provided he can find Charles. He warns it will take a while.”

  Her face fell. “I don’t know how I’ll survive till
we hear something.”

  “If Orry can stand the risk, you can stand the wait,” George said, severe as a father chastising a thoughtless child. He had a premonition that it would be a very long time indeed before they heard anything. He prayed that if word did come, it would not be tragic.

  95

  GEORGE KISSED HIS CHILDREN after delivering a short lecture on how they must behave while he was gone. Then he embraced Constance, who struggled to contain tears. She presented him with a dried sprig of mountain laurel obviously pressed in a book. He kissed her once more, tenderly, by way of thanks. Then he slipped the sprig in his pocket, pulled on his talma, promised he would write soon, and went out to find transportation to Alexandria.

  The day was gray and warm. A downpour started as the work train chugged to Long Bridge, which was wide enough to accommodate tracks and a parallel roadway for wagon and foot traffic. Pickets near a sign reading WALK YOUR HORSE waved at George on the rear platform of the caboose. He had chosen to ride there because the interior was stifling.

  He touched fingers to his hat to return the greeting, then seized the handgrip and leaned into the rain to look ahead to green hills and the solid brick homes of the riverside town. Forsythia and daffodils, azaleas and apple blossoms colored the somber day. That was Virginia. That was the war. Memory showed him lurid images of Mexico and Manassas and the foreman’s burning house. He was still glad to be going.

  After searching nearly an hour, he located Colonel Daniel McCallum, Haupt’s replacement, in the steamy O&A roundhouse. McCallum, a Scot with a fine reputation as a railway manager, had a fan-shaped beard of the kind common among senior officers. He also struck George as having a bad disposition. George’s arrival—the interruption—didn’t sit well.

  “I’ve not a lot of time for you,” the colonel said, motioning George to follow. They left the busy roundhouse with its great cupola, a local landmark, walked between stacked rails, some of Hazard’s, and entered one of the many temporary buildings scattered in the yards. McCallum slammed the door in a way that said much about his frame of mind.

  Taking the only chair in the tiny office, he unrolled the pouch containing George’s transfer orders and smoothed the papers under rough, big-knuckled hands. He flipped to the second page, the third—too rapidly to be reading. It took no intelligence for George to realize he was unwelcome.

  Understandable enough, he supposed; the papers included a letter of recommendation from Haupt. In Washington, it was said that McCallum had intrigued against George’s friend, done his utmost to ingratiate himself with Stanton and turn opinion against Haupt so that McCallum would eventually inherit command of the department.

  McCallum put the papers in the pouch and handed it back with a slashing motion of his forearm. “You have no practical experience in bridge repair or rail construction, Major. So far as I can determine, your prime qualification for the Construction Corps seems to be your friendship with my predecessor.”

  George clenched his hand around the pouch, ready to punch the colonel’s face. McCallum wrinkled his nose and peered out a small, filthy window. A spring shower was splattering a nearby stack of rails.

  Finally he deigned to return his attention to the man standing before him. “General Grant wants the Orange and Alexandria kept open, in good repair, all the way down to Culpeper, his base camp for the spring offensive. It’s a tall order because of the Confederate partisans who operate along much of the right of way. The trestle at Bull Run has been rebuilt seven times. What I am saying is, we have not a spare moment for instructing beginners.”

  “I can swing a pick, Colonel. I can dig with a shovel, or pound a spike. No training required.” The man offended George because his dislike of Haupt, and therefore Haupt’s friends, was not hidden. George wanted no part of such politicking. He wanted to work, and he didn’t give a damn if he had to give offense to secure the place to which his orders entitled him.

  The rain drummed. A whistle blew, bells rang. McCallum’s silence conveyed increasing belligerence. All at once George realized he might be holding a trump or two.

  “I know you need officers in the Construction Corps, Colonel. A lot of white men won’t command contrabands. I will.”

  McCallum’s sour mouth twitched. “A worthy suggestion, but one our table of organization won’t allow, I regret to say. The basic unit of the corps is a ten-man squad. Two such squads are led by one officer. A first lieutenant.” The twitch became a smirk. “You are too well educated, laddie—”

  George recognized a jibe at the Academy when he heard one. This time he really had to fight the impulse to hit the old bastard.

  “—too qualified, if you see what I mean. Have you considered applying for staff duty with General Grant?”

  George showed his highest card. “I attended West Point with Sam Grant. I campaigned with him from Vera Cruz to Mexico City. Maybe I should apply to him to straighten out this mess.” He shook the pouch. “I was granted a transfer to the military railroads, and now I find I’m refused.”

  In seconds, McCallum turned gray as the weather. “Nae, nae—there’s no need to involve higher-ups in this. No problem’s insurmountable. The rules can be bent a wee bit. We can find you a place—”

  Seeing George mollified, the older man studied him in a sly way. “If you are indeed willing to lead colored men.”

  “That’s what I said, Colonel. I am.”

  Twenty-four hours later, in the mustering area, George met his two squads and began to question the certainty with which he had spoken. Tense, he inspected the Negroes while they inspected him. If his scrutiny reflected interest and curiosity, theirs was suspicious. In a few cases, hostile.

  They were no more varied, physically, than any randomly gathered group of men except, George quickly observed, in one way: all but one of the blacks were taller than George.

  He had dressed for this meeting with special care, though the effect was the opposite. His outfit consisted of old corduroy trousers, non-regulation, stuffed into muddy boots, and a short fatigue jacket of summer-weight linen. He wore no insignia except a turreted-castle-and-wreath device pinned at a careless angle on the stubby collar of the jacket. The silver metal of the device showed he was an officer, but that was all.

  At that, he looked better than his men, most of whom were dressed for duty, not show. Their pants were as assorted as their faces, but all had regulation army pullover work shirts without cuffs. At the long-vanished moment of manufacture, the cotton flannel shirts had been white. Three men wore shoes whose uppers had separated from the soles. Products of Stanley’s factory, perhaps?

  Preparing to address the men, George clasped his hands behind his back and unconsciously raised on tiptoes. Someone caught that and chuckled. George spoke at once, loudly.

  “My name is Hazard. I have just transferred to the Construction Corps. Henceforward, you men will be working for me.”

  “No, sir,” said the one Negro shorter than George, a dusky mite with wrists no thicker than saplings. “I’m takin’ orders from you, but I’m workin’ for me.”

  The quickness amused George, but he felt he shouldn’t show it. “Let me see if I understand. Are you saying you’re a free man, therefore this duty is your choice?”

  The dusky man grinned. “You’re pretty smart—for a white boss.”

  Laughter. George couldn’t help joining in. His tension broke. These men would be all right.

  96

  BURDETTA HALLORAN HAD CARRIED her investigation as far as she could. Now she must involve the authorities. But to whom should she give her information?

  The question stayed with her, unanswered, during the frightening raid conducted by two bodies of Union horse, led by Brigadier Judson Kilpatrick and Colonel Ulric Dahlgren, son of the Yankee admiral of the same name. Kilpatrick’s men had ridden to within two and a half miles of Capitol Square before home guards under Bob Lee’s boy Custis drove them back, with assistance from Wade Hampton.

  The second attacking
force, five hundred horse commanded by Dahlgren, approached Richmond through Goochland County. After Dahlgren died from enemy fire, a thirteen-year-old boy found orders and a memorandum book on the body. The documents, in Dahlgren’s handwriting, outlined the purposes of the raid.

  Prisoners to be set free. Richmond to be put to the torch. President Davis to be executed, together with all members of his cabinet.

  The Confederate capital, which had reeled with fright at the approach of the cavalry, began reeling with rage the moment the contents of Dahlgren’s papers were disclosed. The liars in Washington immediately claimed every word a forgery.

  During the emergency, there was little outward change in the life of the auburn-haired widow. Burdetta Halloran continued to wage her daily war with escalating prices and the riffraff swarming on the streets and the pervasive certainty that the armies of U.S. Grant would strike at the Confederacy with the onset of warm weather.

  Most of all, Mrs. Halloran struggled with the question of greatest emotional importance to her. How to set retribution in motion? If she waited too long and Richmond came under siege, government officials might be too busy to listen to her. The quarry might escape. To whom should she speak?

  She was still without an answer when a friend boasted that she had been invited to one of the increasingly rare levees at the White House. Pleading, Mrs. Halloran arranged an invitation for herself. She had by this time rejected the idea of going to the most logical person, old Winder.

  She did so for several reasons. He was vile-tempered, with a reputation for being contemptuous of women. His staff consisted mostly of illiterate former criminals. And he acted so harshly and precipitously in many cases that he had a long record of overturned arrests and thwarted prosecutions. Gossip said he wouldn’t last another three months. Mrs. Halloran wanted to deal with some official who could handle her information properly.