Love and War

by John Jakes

  “You’re a soldier.” He didn’t mean a Union soldier.

  “Was,” Charles said. “Was.”

  143

  BRIGADIER JACK DUNCAN, A stocky officer with crinkly gray hair, a drink-mottled nose, and a jaw like a short horizontal line, strode into the War Department, shoulders back, left hand resting on the hilt of his gleaming dress sword. When he emerged half an hour later, he was beaming.

  He had enjoyed a brief but highly satisfactory chat with Mr. Stanton, who commended him for his performance of Washington staff work throughout the war and for his patience when repeated requests for field duty were denied because General Halleck wanted his administrative skills. Now, with the war concluded, his wish could be honored. Duncan had new orders and travel vouchers in his pocket.

  He was being posted to the plains cavalry, where experienced men were needed to confront and overcome the Indian threat. He was to depart immediately, and would not even see the grand parade of Grant’s army, scheduled for a few days hence. Special reviewing platforms and miles of patriotic bunting were already in place for the event.

  Musing on how it would feel to ride regularly again—for the past couple of years, he had managed only an occasional Sunday canter along Rock Creek on some livery-stable plug—the brigadier prepared to cross crowded, noisy Pennsylvania Avenue. He noticed a slender, tough-looking fellow with a long beard, cadet gray shirt, and holstered army Colt. Obviously nervous, the man chewed a cigar and studied the building Duncan had just left.

  The stride—better, the swagger—suggested the man might be a cavalryman. A reb, to judge from his shirt and threadbare appearance. Union boys were keeping themselves trim and neat in preparation for the grand review.

  There seemed to be hundreds of ex-Confederates swarming around town, though if that wild-looking specimen had indeed fought on the other side, he was risking a lot carrying a side arm. Stepping off the walk, Duncan nimbly dodged a dray, then an omnibus, and forgot about the man. There was really just one reb with whom he was concerned: a brevetted major named Main.

  Would he ever hear from the fellow? He was beginning to doubt it. He had written three letters, paid exorbitantly to have each smuggled to Richmond, and received no answer to any of them. It seemed likely that Main was dead.

  In a guilty way, the brigadier was grateful for the silence. Of course Main deserved to have his son with him. But Duncan was enjoying the responsibility of caring for young Charles. He had his housekeeper and more recently had hired a fine Irish girl to wet-nurse the infant and take care of certain other odious duties.

  She was expert at her job. The housekeeper must be given notice and a month’s wages—no, two, he decided—but Duncan had obtained the Irish girl’s promise that she would accompany him to any new post where duty took him. She might well refuse to go out among the Indians, however.

  If she did, he would find someone else. He was determined to take the child with him. Being a great-uncle and de facto parent had added an unexpectedly rich dimension to Duncan’s lifelong bachelorhood. The one girl he had adored as a young man had died of consumption before they could be married, and none other had ever been fine or sweet enough to replace her. Now the void where love belonged was filled again.

  He soon reached the small rented house a few blocks from the avenue. Jaunty as a boy, he took the steps two at a time and roared through the door into the dim lower hall.

  “Maureen? Where’s my grandnephew? Bring him here. I have splendid news. We’re leaving town tonight.”

  Few things in life had ever intimidated Charles. For a day or two, the newness of West Point had. Sharpsburg had. Washington did now. So many damn Yankees. Whether soldier or civilian, most were hostile as reptiles when he asked a polite question in his distinctly Southern voice. The bunting everywhere depressed him further by reminding him of defeat. He felt like some scruffy animal just out of the woods and surrounded by hunters.

  With an air of confidence he didn’t feel, he walked through President’s Park and up the steps of the War Department. He had left his gypsy cloak at the squalid island rooming house and fastened the throat button of his faded cadet gray shirt for neatness, though the effect was lost because of his chest-length beard. Nothing could do much to improve his wolfish appearance, and he knew it.

  Nervously fiddling with a fresh cigar, he entered the ground-floor lobby and walked through the first open doors he saw. In a large room, he found a great many noncommissioned soldiers and civilian clerks shuffling piles of paper at desks on the other side of a counter. This was worse than setting yourself up for battle.

  But he had to go through with it. Any humiliation or scrap was worth it, if only he could find Duncan and satisfy himself about Gus.

  One of the clerks in blue, bald as the knob of a cane although he barely looked thirty, approached the counter after making Charles wait three minutes. The clerk stroked his huge oiled mustaches, first the right, then the left, as he scrutinized the lean visitor.

  The clerk took note of Charles’s patched shirt of cadet gray. He eyed the army Colt and the cigar held between wind-browned thumb and forefinger almost as if it were a second weapon. He found the visitor vaguely menacing and barely worth the time of an offhand “Yes?”

  “I’m trying to locate an army officer. Is this the right place for—”

  “Haven’t you got the wrong city?” the clerk broke in. He had reacted visibly before Charles finished his first sentence. “The United States War Department maintains no files on rebels. And in case no one’s told you, if you were paroled, you’re carrying that gun illegally.” He turned away.

  “Excuse me,” Charles said. “The officer belongs to your army.” As the words came out, he knew it was a bad slip, caused by nerves. He had confirmed his former loyalty. Tense, he continued, “His name is—”

  “I am afraid we can’t help you. We aren’t in business to look up records for every paroled traitor who walks in the door.”

  “Private,” Charles said, seething, “I am asking you as politely as I know how. I need help. It’s urgent that I find this man. If you’ll just tell me which office—”

  “No one in this building can help you,” the clerk retorted loudly. The raised heads, suspended pens, sharp stares said he spoke for all those in the room. “Why don’t you go ask Jeff Davis? They locked him up in Fort Monroe this morning.”

  “I’m not interested in the whereabouts of Jeff—” Again the clerk turned away.

  Charles dropped his cigar, shot his hand across the counter and grabbed the clerk’s collar. “Listen to me, damn you.”

  Consternation. Men running. Shouts—Charles’s the loudest. “You can at least do me the courtesy of—”

  Voices:

  “He has a gun.”

  “Take it away from him.”

  “Watch out, he might—”

  In the confusion, hands seized him from behind. Two other noncoms, one formidably large, had dashed around the end of the counter. “You’d better get out of here, boy,” the big man said while the clerk puffed out his cheeks in a series of gasps, to demonstrate his outrage. He fingered his collar as if it had been permanently soiled. “Start trouble and you’ll have your lunch in Old Capitol Prison. Maybe your Christmas dinner, too.”

  Charles wrenched free of their hands, glaring. They weren’t hostile—at least the big one wasn’t—but they were determined. His impulse was to start throwing punches. Behind him, in the lobby, spectators had gathered. He heard the questions and muttering as the big noncom gripped his arm.

  “Come on, reb. Be sensible. Hightail it before—”

  “What the devil is going on here?”

  The barked words sent the noncoms to attention. They released Charles, who turned to see a stern, middle-aged officer with white hair and three fingers of his right hand missing. One shoulder of his dark blue coat-cloak was thrown back far enough to show an epaulet with an eagle of silver embroidery.

  “Colonel,” the clerk began, “thi
s reb marched in here and made insulting demands. He wouldn’t accept a polite refusal. Instead, he tried—”

  The words went whirling away through Charles’s mind, unheard as he stared at the Union officer and saw a farm in northern Virginia, in another year, in another lifetime.

  “What is it exactly that he demanded?” the officer said with an angry glance at Charles, then a second, swift and astonished, one. My God, Charles thought, he isn’t an old man at all. He only looks it.

  His voice unexpectedly hoarse, he said, “Prevo?”

  “That’s right. I remember you. Hampton’s cavalry. West Point before that.”

  Someone in the office mumbled, “Oh, we’re to have an Academy reunion, are we?”

  Prevo’s glance silenced the speaker. Then, more temperately, he said to Charles, “What’s the trouble here?”

  “I came to ask for help. I desperately need to locate a Brigadier Duncan in the Union Army.”

  “Nothing so hard about that,” Prevo said, his eye and his testiness directed toward the flushed clerk. “However, you shouldn’t walk around with that revolver. Especially in this building. Take it off and give it to me, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  Calming, Charles unfastened his gun belt. Prevo buckled it and hung it over his shoulder. To the bald clerk he said, “I want your name, soldier. Why didn’t you do the decent thing and direct this man to the personnel clerks in the adjutant general’s office?” To Charles: “They would have the brigadier’s current address. I don’t know him.”

  “Sir,” the clerk stammered, “I explained—This man’s a reb. Look at him. Arrogant, dirty—”

  “Shut your mouth,” Prevo said. “The war’s over. It’s time to quit fighting. Generals Grant and Lee seem to have assimilated that fact, even if you can’t.”

  The humiliated clerk stared at the floor. To the big noncom, Colonel Prevo said, “I want his name on my desk in an hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come on, Main. I remember your name now, too. I’ll show you to the right office.” As they started out, he paused and pointed to the counter. “I think you dropped your cigar.”

  The lobby crowd dispersed, though Charles continued to draw stares as he and Prevo walked up to the next floor. “Thank you, Prevo,” Charles said. “I recognized you right away. Georgetown Mounted Dragoons—”

  “And several other units since. Every one was decimated in Virginia, so they finally retired me to duty here. I’ll be out in a couple of months. Here we go—turn right. We’ll soon know the whereabouts of this General Duncan.”

  “I’m immensely grateful, Prevo. I really do need to see him about a serious matter.”

  “Professional?”

  “Personal.”

  Prevo paused at a closed door. “Well, here’s the office. Let’s see what we can do.” All of the wrinkles in his exhausted face moved when he tried to smile. “Even though I only lasted my plebe year, I have fond memories of the Academy. And the Academy does take care of its own. By the way—are you in a rush?”

  “No. Finding Duncan is important, but there’s no hurry.”

  “Excellent. I’ll buy you a drink afterward. And,” he added, lowering his voice, “return your gun.” He opened the door as effortlessly as if he had all his fingers instead of one and a thumb.

  144

  MAUREEN, THE PLUMP, POTATO-plain young woman, brought the baby from the kitchen in response to Duncan’s shout. The infant had been resting on a blanket in a patch of sunshine while Maureen opened pea pods for the evening meal. He had dark hair and a merry round face and wore a tiny shirt, trousers, and snug slippers, all of navy blue flannel. Maureen had sewn the garments herself.

  “You say tonight, sir? Where are we going?”

  The infant recognized his great-uncle and cooed when the brigadier swung him expertly into the curve of his left arm. “To the frontier—to see red Indians.” Anxiously: “Will you still come along?”

  “Indeed I will, General. I have read about the West. There is great opportunity there—and not nearly so much crowding as here in the East.”

  To ensure the arrangement, he added with a cagey smile, “Also, in the United States Cavalry there are many men of good character—single men—desirous of finding attractive, decent young women to marry.”

  Maureen’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, sir. I have read that, too.”

  Mrs. Caldwell, the buxom, middle-aged housekeeper, came downstairs as the brigadier held out his right index finger. “Ah, sir, it is you. I was in the attic, but I thought I heard you arrive.”

  “Only to announce a permanent departure, this very evening.” While he said that, Maureen wiped the extended finger with her apron. Duncan then put the finger into the baby’s mouth. Up came one small, clutching hand, to find the knuckle and close.

  Duncan explained matters to his housekeeper and entertained the baby at the same time. White spots, hints of teeth, had appeared on the infant’s gums, and he loved teething on the brigadier’s finger. He chewed it hard, grimacing and drooling happily.

  “Then it’s a promotion, is it, sir?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Caldwell.”

  “My most sincere congratulations.” She touched a corner of one eye. “I shall be sorry to see you go. The past five years have passed swiftly. And pleasurably, I might add.”

  “Thank you. Now we must discuss your future.”

  Mrs. Caldwell was happy about the generous settlement and even found a positive side to the sudden departure. “My widowed sister in Alexandria has been begging me to come for a visit. I may stay a week or two—”

  “By all means. I can handle storage of the furniture and close out the lease by letter. We needn’t bother with those things today. We have quite enough to do.”

  “What time is your train, General?”

  “Six sharp.”

  “Then I’ll definitely go to my sister’s this evening. I’ll hire a cab.”

  “Take the horse and buggy. I make you a present of it. I won’t be needing it again.”

  “Oh, sir, that’s extremely generous—”

  “No more so than you have been,” he said, remembering certain nights, lonely for both of them, when she was far more than a conventional housekeeper. Their gazes met, held a moment. Then, blushing, she looked elsewhere.

  “You must at least permit me to drive you to the depot,” she said.

  “No, we’ll hire a cab. That way, you can reach your sister’s before dark.”

  “Very well, sir. Will you excuse me so I can see to your packing?” A great deal of it had to be squeezed into the next few hours.

  But even little Charles seemed to approve of the abrupt redirection of their lives. He chewed harder than ever on his great-uncle’s finger.

  Charles continued to draw stares in Willard’s saloon bar, but Prevo’s presence forestalled trouble. The gun belt on the table had some effect as well.

  They started with a whiskey each. That led to three more as the hours slipped by in an increasingly pleasant and easygoing exchange of reminiscences. Charles felt a euphoria of a kind he hadn’t experienced since before Sharpsburg. Not only did he have Duncan’s address on a slip of paper in his pocket, but it was in Washington, close by. The brigadier had been on the general staff throughout the war.

  Slightly bleary, Prevo held his pocket watch near his face. “I have an appointment back at the department at a quarter past five. That leaves us twenty minutes for one farewell drink. Game?”

  “Absolutely. Then I’ll take a leisurely stroll to Duncan’s.” Prevo nodded, signaling the waiter. Charles went on, “Having another gives me a chance to mention something that bothered me for a long time. I’m also just drunk enough.”

  Puzzled, the colonel smiled and waited.

  “You recall the day we met? I gave you my word that the female smuggler wasn’t in the house.”

  The colonel nodded. “Your word as an officer and West Point man. I accepted it.”

  “But what I
said was a trick. Oh, I was telling the strict truth. She wasn’t in the house—” The waiter arrived with two fresh drinks. Charles waited until he set them down and left. “She was hiding in the woods.”

  “I know.”

  Glass at his lips, Charles started so hard he spewed a spray of whiskey, some of which landed on Prevo. The colonel produced a handkerchief and used it, explaining, “I spied the buggy. Fortunately, none of my men did.”

  Charles put the glass down. Shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why—?”

  “I had to pursue her, but nothing said I had to catch her. I didn’t like making war on women, and I still don’t.”

  With an owlish blink, Charles replied, “Damn shame some of your boys didn’t feel the same way. Sherman and his stinking bummers. The damage done to South Carolina went beyond all bounds of—”

  Abruptly, he stopped. A new flintiness showed in Prevo’s eyes. He hadn’t touched his whiskey. Charles drew a hand across his mouth.

  “I apologize. What you told that clerk applies to me, too. The war’s over. Sometimes I forget.”

  Prevo glanced at his mutilated right hand, resting beside his glass. “So do I, Charles. We all paid. We’ll all remember for years.”

  At ten past five, on the street outside the hotel, they parted with a firm handshake, friends.

  At the Baltimore & Ohio terminal on New Jersey Avenue, amid a great crowd of departing passengers, Brigadier Duncan and Maureen, carrying the baby, boarded the cars. Duncan settled the Irish girl in her seat in second class-—he had first-class accommodations—then returned to the platform to find his porter and make certain every piece of luggage was loaded.

  The platform clock showed 5:35 P.M.

  145

  STUDYING HOUSE NUMBERS, CHARLES moved along the block with a slight unsteadiness left over from Willard’s. Should be one of these, he thought, a second before his eye fell on the tin numeral matching that written on the paper. Something choked in his throat a moment, and he began to sober quickly.