Love and War

by John Jakes

  On the evening of the levee—late March—more than a hundred people filled the White House. Wearing her finest dark blue velvet—a trifle heavy, but rich-looking—Mrs. Halloran quickly separated herself from her friend in order to circulate.

  She took a cup of sassafras tea—she would drink nothing spiritous tonight; she wanted a clear head—and over the rim surveyed the crowd of government officials and senior military men and their wives. A merry crowd, she thought, considering the circumstances. Then she spied Varina Davis.

  Only in her late thirties, the President’s wife had the worn appearance of a woman twenty years older. Her husband’s burdens had become hers. The President himself, gracious as ever with his guests, was, like his spouse, clearly exhausted. Small wonder, Mrs. Halloran thought as she recovered from the shock of seeing the first lady. Davis was under fire on every front. Under fire because he clung to Bragg and rejected Joe Johnston. Under fire because of worthless money and runaway prices. Under fire because his government and his leadership had failed for three years and continued to fail.

  Burdetta Halloran tried not to become depressed as she mingled. She kept her mind on her objective.

  She joined a group around Secretary Seddon. Grimly, the secretary was describing how he had nearly lost his Goochland County estate to the torch of Dahlgren’s raiders. She moved on to plump, suave Benjamin, who had many more listeners than Mr. Seddon.

  “I contend that the Confederacy might do well to steal a leaf from Lincoln’s book and adopt his program of emancipation in toto.”

  The reactions—astonishment, anger—did nothing to perturb Benjamin. Up came one cautioning, well-manicured hands as he continued. “It is, I know, a proposition easy to dismiss as radical. But consider: at one stroke we could augment our depleted army with great numbers of Negroes and instantly undercut all the moralizing that has become a way of life for the black Republicans.”

  “Nigras will never fight for the people who chained them,” someone snorted.

  Benjamin first replied with a nod and a rueful smile. “That, of course, is the plan’s great flaw. In any case, the President has asked that I do not promote my view to the public at large. I comply. I therefore ask you to regard this conversation as private, among close friends. I endeavor to be, always, a good and faithful servant.”

  One of his plump hands plucked an oyster from a silver bowl and dispatched it down his throat with gusto. You also endeavor to be a survivor, so I hear, Burdetta said to herself, gliding on.

  Across the room, she noticed a tall officer, handsome in a gaunt sort of way. He drew the eye because of his empty left sleeve, pinned up at the shoulder.

  She approached cautiously. He was making some point about the military situation to three other people, one a handsome woman with the look of a Spaniard or a Creole. The woman clung to the officer’s good arm. His wife?

  The man impressed her. She glided away again, inquired here and there, and soon got an answer.

  “That’s Colonel Main, one of Mr. Seddon’s assistants. His duties? Various. I don’t know all of them but one is to act as a watchdog on that beast Winder.”

  Burdetta Halloran beamed. “Thank you so much for the information. Will you excuse me while I exchange this empty cup for a glass of white wine?” The search was over.

  She was ushered to Orry’s desk in the War Department at half past eleven the following morning. Polite and surprisingly graceful despite his handicap, he positioned the visitor’s chair for her. “Kindly be seated, Mrs.—Halloran, I believe you said?”

  “Yes, Colonel. Is there somewhere we might speak that is more private? I’ve come on a matter of extreme gravity which is also highly confidential.”

  Skepticism flickered in Orry’s dark eyes. Despite his good manners, he was tense and had been for two weeks. Each morning he awoke with the hope that today he would glance up from his desk to see Cousin Charles striding in. As soon as he had received the letter from George and gone to Libby to see Billy’s condition for himself, he had written Charles, in care of Hampton’s command, requesting an urgent meeting.

  Of course, when the Yanks, the Kilcavalry, struck, Charles had no doubt been occupied, to say the least. But the emergency was over. At minimum, he could have sent a note. Couriers traveled between Richmond and field headquarters frequently. Did the silence mean Charles was hurt? If so, all the responsibility fell on him—

  With some struggle, he wrenched his attention back to Mrs. Halloran’s question. “Let me see whether our small conference room is free.”

  It was. He led her in and shut the door. From her reticule she took a folded paper. Spread out, it proved to be a sketch map of the James River below the city. She had indicated several landmarks and drawn four small squares on the riverbank in the Wilton Bluffs area.

  She pointed to the squares. “These represent the buildings of an abandoned farm, Colonel. Abandoned, that is, except by those now conducting business on the premises at night. If you investigate, you will find this farm is the headquarters for a cabal led by a certain Mr. Lamar Hugh Augustus Powell, of Georgia.”

  Orry tap-tapped his long fingers on the gleaming table. What did this attractive woman want? She had a steely, desperate quality he had detected at once. It showed in her posture, her eyes, her controlled voice.

  “Powell,” he said. “I believe I’ve heard the name. Speculator, isn’t he?”

  “By profession. His avocation is treason.”

  Quickly, she told the rest. Powell’s cabal was gathering and storing weapons at the Wilton Bluffs farm. With her nail she touched the rectangle immediately next to the line representing the bluff. “This is the shed that once housed implements. On this side it’s a sheer drop, a long one, down to the James. But the shed may be approached safely through this field to the north. Or possibly—”

  “Wait, please. I’m-sorry to interrupt you, but before we go on, you must tell me the purpose of the cabal. There’s nothing illegal about owning and storing weapons, especially if the purpose is home defense.”

  “The purpose,” she said, “is to assassinate President Davis and one or more senior members of the cabinet.”

  In that deliberate way of his, Orry remained motionless to let his thoughts catch up. After his astonishment passed, he didn’t laugh. Didn’t even feel like it. “Mrs. Halloran—with all respect for the patriotic impulse that brought you here—do you have any concept of how many reports of threats against the life of Mr. Davis reach these offices every week? One or two—at minimum. Many weeks, the number is much higher.”

  “I can’t help that. My information is correct. If you search this building I’m showing you, I guarantee you will discover rifles, revolvers, infernal devices—”

  “Bombs?” That rattled him; it wasn’t typical. “What type? How are they to be used?”

  “I can’t answer either question—I don’t know. But I assure you there are explosive devices on the property. Stage a raid; you’ll find them. You may even find the plotters. They meet frequently.”

  “How soon is this attempt to be carried out?”

  “I’ve been unable to learn that.”

  “All right, then how did you come by the information you do possess?”

  The steel was impregnable. He saw it even before she said, “It’s impossible for me to tell you that. My refusal involves matters of trust. Promises made—”

  “Obviously your inquiry must have taken a great deal of time—”

  “Months.”

  “And determination.”

  “I am a patriot, Colonel Main.”

  Somehow he doubted the assertion. Again he said nothing. The attractive Mrs. Halloran struck him as one of those people who had a tightly guarded inner place where true opinions, motives, methods were carefully hidden and permanently unreachable. In that respect, she reminded him of Ashton.

  He cleared his throat before resuming. “I don’t doubt you for a moment. Nevertheless, it would be extremely helpful if I had s
ome idea of how you came by your information.”

  “I gathered much of it myself. A person I trust helped with other pieces—actual observation of the farm at night, for example. That is the most I can say. Why do such details matter? What counts the most is the plan. The threat!”

  “Agreed. Please allow me another question.”

  Curiously, the sudden masked look of her eyes reminded him of someone he hadn’t thought of in a long time: Elkanah Bent. “All right.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you that the provost marshal is the logical man to hear what you’ve just told me? Oh, but perhaps you’ve already—”

  “No.” She made a face, as if she had bitten into spoiled meat. “I have never met General Winder, but I despise him, like any right-thinking citizen. The civilian population can’t find enough food, yet he persists with his ridiculous price decrees that anger the farmers and make the situation worse. I would never deal with a man who’s done as much to harm our cause as any general on the other side.”

  On that point, anyway, Mrs. Halloran had a lot of company. She sounded convincing. His fingers tap-tapped the table. Beyond the closed door, war clerk Jones complained about some error in paperwork.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No more facts, Colonel. Only this: I promise that if you investigate, you’ll find every word is true. If you fail to investigate—dismiss what I’ve said, for whatever reason—the death of the President will be on your conscience.”

  “That’s a heavy burden.” He sounded unfriendly for the first time.

  “Yours now, Colonel. Good day.”

  “Just a moment.”

  The command caught her half risen from the chair. “We’re not finished. I will take you to one of my clerks. You’ll give him your full name, place of residence, and other pertinent information. That is routine with everyone who aids the War Department.”

  Burdetta Halloran’s tension melted under a flood of relief and joy. Main’s long, furrowed face, his patient manner—above all, his anger when she tweaked his conscience, and his subsequent display of strength—told her something important. Her intelligence and judgment were all she believed them to be. He was precisely the right man.

  She smiled. “Thank you, Colonel. I’ll cooperate to the full, so long as I can remain anonymous.”

  “I’ll do my best to respect your wish, but I make no promises.”

  She hesitated. Thought of Powell. Murmured, “I understand. I agree to the terms. What will you do first?”

  “That, I’m not free to say. But I assure you of one thing. The statements you’ve made won’t be ignored.”

  She saw the iron wall drop in his eyes and knew it was useless to argue or ask more questions. No matter. She had set the machine in motion. Powell was finished.

  “Of course I said her statements wouldn’t be ignored,” he explained to Madeline that night. “What else could I tell someone pretending to be sincere?”

  Madeline caught the significance of the word pretending. He went on. “I didn’t inform her of the next step because I was damned if I knew what it should be. I still don’t. One thing I told her was correct. Reports of assassination schemes are common. Yet this one—How can I properly explain why it feels different? Not because the woman impressed me. I think she’s out to get someone. Powell, probably. What bothers me is one question: Why should she invent so many concrete details when it’s obvious that an hour’s investigation can prove them false? Is she stupid? No. Telling the story may be her way of getting revenge. But maybe the story’s also true.”

  “Powell,” Madeline repeated. “The same Powell who was Ashton’s investment partner?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “If there’s a plot, could she be involved?”

  Orry reflected only a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Ashton isn’t precisely a zealot about the cause. Beyond that, it’s my impression that those who try to change history by killing someone are afflicted with several kinds of lunacy. Condoning murder—being willing to do the deed—that’s one, and the most obvious. Another, slightly less obvious, is lack of concern about personal consequences. Ashton never heard of self-sacrifice, or if she did, she laughed. Ashton cares for Ashton. I could believe that James would risk himself in some crazy political scheme, but not my sister.”

  She nodded. “Does anything else bother you?”

  “Yes. The woman’s refusal to go to Winder. It was perfect—and perfectly performed. Yet Winder’s precisely the man who should be told first. He’d arrest Powell, lock him up, then look into the charges. Instead of doing that, Mrs. Halloran came to the War Department—surely knowing we’d be more deliberate than the provost, though ultimately, if we built a case, it would stand up. Winder’s often don’t. What I’m saying is, I think she wants results more than she wants quick revenge. Wants them and knows they can be gotten. That bothers me—that and those damn details. We hear of plot after plot, but seldom do we get specifics. Here we have the very center of the cabal pinpointed. She drew the map, which I locked in my desk. One last detail disturbs me most of all.”

  “What is it?”

  “Bombs. It’s the first time I’ve heard infernal devices mentioned in connection with assassination. Knives, pistols, yes. But not bombs.”

  Raising his hand, Orry slowly squeezed space between thumb and forefinger. “It’s the kind of tiny detail that sets my teeth rattling—with or without that prod about bearing the guilt if I do nothing and something happens.”

  “Will you go to the secretary?”

  “Not yet. Nor Winder either. But I may take a ride down the river alone some evening soon.”

  She knelt at his side, rested her cheek on his right sleeve. “It could be dangerous if you do.”

  “But disastrous if I don’t.”

  97

  “AND THEN—”

  Charles interrupted the tale to puff his cigar, down to a stub now. The smell grew as the length decreased.

  Gus could barely tolerate the smoke. She shifted sideways, away from his bare hip, and pulled the light cover higher on her stomach. The cigar’s glow faded, the pale plane of Charles’s chest disappeared in the dark.

  Though she wouldn’t have admitted it, when he failed to say something about her pulling away—didn’t even reach for her hand—it was a hurt. Small, but there were so many of them recently. They devastated her. She no longer had the ability to armor herself with words. Once she had lowered the defense, she couldn’t seem to raise it again.

  “—Hugh Scott and Dan and I slid some logs into the river. We hung onto them and paddled across. The water was cold as sin, and the dark made it worse.” He was speaking quietly, reflectively—almost as if he were alone with his thoughts. Which in a sense was not far from the truth.

  For most of the winter, he had bivouacked at Hamilton’s Crossing. It was no great distance from the farm, but that didn’t mean she saw him more often. He was away on duty most of the time. Tonight, as usual, his arrival had taken her by surprise. He rode up just after dark, wolfed the supper she prepared quickly, then grabbed her hand and led her to bed with the same brusqueness he had exhibited at the table. Scarcely a trace of his old politeness remained, though that wasn’t the serious issue. The war had wrought a change, and the change had beaten many things out of him, manners being but one.

  He was describing events at the time of last month’s Richmond raid. She prompted him to go on by saying, “You crossed the river toward the enemy?”

  “That’s usually how it works when you’re a scout. You’ve been around me long enough to know that much.”

  “Do forgive my lapse of memory.”

  Instantly, she regretted the bitterness. The regret was wasted. He just hitched his body higher against the creaky headboard and turned his face away, toward the open window and the slow, stately dance of moonlit curtains. The April night smelled of the earth Washington and Boz had plowed that day. In the pasture behind the barn, where rain had created sma
ll ponds in low places, bullfrogs honked.

  “We did a lot more than swim the Rappahannock that night—” The memory brought a chuckle, which pleased and relieved her; she hadn’t heard him laugh in quite a while. “We went on, soaked through, till we found the Yankee column. It was Kilpatrick, all right. We hid out until we could snag three of his spare horses as they went by. We mounted and rode along for a while, bareback.”

  “In the middle of the Union cavalry?”

  “No one noticed in the dark. And it was easier for us to count noses while we were right among ’em. We even forded the river with General Kilpatrick and his boys. I wish we could have shot some of the sons of bitches, but we had to carry our information back to division. So, south of the river, we split away—the dumb sods didn’t notice that, either. We rode like fury, and that’s the reason General Hampton was waiting when Little Kil showed up.”

  She wanted to soothe the hardness from his voice. “That is quite a story,” she said, patting his bare arm.

  Instantly, he rolled away, lifted the curtain, and flipped the cigar butt into the side yard. An Indian cobra of smoke formed in the moonlight. “Got a few more—” a great loud yawn “—but I’ll save them for morning.”

  He pulled up the cover, pecked her cheek, rolled onto his left side, and within half a minute started to snore.

  The curtains leaped and fell back, partners in a moonlit quadrille. Gus pushed the back of her head deeper into the bolster and once again tugged the cover higher, to warm her breasts. She rubbed her right cheek, surprised and angered by what she felt.

  I think he’s done with me, and I don’t know why. I think he wants to end it and hasn’t the courage to say so.

  The change, whose causes she understood only in a general way, was poisoning every part of their relationship. His love-making had been drained of tenderness; he thrust hard and hastily all the time, with few kisses and no spoken endearments. What was she to do? There were no alternatives. She couldn’t stop what was happening to him or stop loving him either.

  Facing that quandary and the growing feeling that they were finished, she had been sleepless many a night lately. This promised to be another such night. “Oh God,” she said very faintly, continuing to cry in silence.