North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  He hoped to God that Hooker had won a victory. The party needed not one but several. The presidential election was little more than a year away, and if Lincoln went down, he would carry many others with him. Stanley cringed at the possibility. He had acquired a taste for his job and the power it carried. If Isabel had to retire to Lehigh Station for the rest of her life, she would blame him and make his life even more miserable than usual. A pity he didn’t have an antidote for Isabel—some younger and less shrewish female who would understand and sympathize with his problems.

  Even at this early hour, hawkers were out. One cried the virtues of bars of soap piled on his curbside stand. Another shoved a cheap telescope in George Hazard’s face. Military wagons, private carriages, hacks, and horseback riders crowded the avenue, along with pedestrians and the mule-drawn cars of the street railway. Bell clanging, one car blocked George’s passage across Pennsylvania. Short-tempered—last night he and William had argued over the boy’s poor marks, and George had slept badly—he scowled at the passengers. Most were men, but a few—

  A face, glimpsed and then gone, stunned him. A teamster swore at him. Wheel hubs brushed the skirts of his uniform coat. Then two horsemen blocked his view, and when they passed, it was too late for him to do anything unless he wanted to stage a one-man foot race to pursue the car. He shook himself and weaved on across the street like a drunken man.

  When Stanley entered Willard’s dining room, he saw his brother breakfasting alone at a table half in sunshine, half in shadow. Stanley’s first impulse was to leave. He hadn’t seen George since Wade’s defeat in the Senate, and undoubtedly George would crow about that. Had the situation been reversed, he would have.

  But the long vigil had left Stanley in a state not typical for him: he craved the companionship of someone from outside the War Department building. So he ignored the waiter motioning him to another table and proceeded to the one where George sat staring at his fried potatoes with a look Stanley thought odd indeed. George didn’t raise his head till his brother cleared his throat.

  “Hello, Stanley. Where did you come from?”

  “The telegraph room. I’ve been there all night awaiting news from Virginia.”

  “Is there any?”

  “Very little. May I join you?”

  George waved at a chair. Stanley put his tall hat on another, then sat, tugging his waistcoat down over the steadily growing bulge of his paunch. “Is something wrong, George? Trouble with Constance or the children?”

  Bastard, George thought. It was Stanley’s style to ask such questions with a hopeful tone. “Yes, there is. Ten minutes ago I saw a ghost.”

  “I beg your—”

  “Sir?” said the waiter, who had been hovering to take Stanley’s order.

  “Come back later,” Stanley snapped. “Tell me what you mean, George.”

  “I saw Virgilia. Riding one of the avenue cars.”

  Astonished, Stanley didn’t speak immediately. “I presumed Virgilia had gone far away from this part of the country. I’ve not heard from her or about her for two or three years.”

  “I’m certain it was she—well, virtually certain. You know she never cared for clothes, and this woman was smartly dressed. Her hair was stylish. Even with those differences—”

  “Obviously you aren’t certain at all,” Stanley broke in. “But suppose it was Virgilia. Why are you concerned? What difference would it make? None to me or Isabel, I assure you. I have nothing in common with my sister except a last name and a loathing for the South.”

  “Don’t you ever wonder if she’s all right?”

  “Never. She’s a thief and a slut—and those are the kindest descriptions I can apply. I don’t care to discuss Virgilia or any other unpleasant topic. I have been up all night, and I want to eat a peaceful breakfast. I can do so at another table if you wish.”

  “Calm down, Stanley. Order something and I’ll keep quiet.”

  But he didn’t. He picked at his potatoes, took a bite of cold beef-steak bathed in greasy gravy, and said, “I do wonder sometimes. Where Virgilia is, I mean.”

  “That’s your prerogative,” Stanley said, taking the same tone he would have used with a man thinking of stepping in front of a fifteen-inch columbiad about to be fired. Conversation lagged after that. Stanley ordered and ate a huge breakfast, topped off with the last of seven muffins lathered in plum preserves. George, meantime, saw distorted, sharply angled images of the woman’s face sliding away in the street-railway car. In a strange way, the brothers were glad of each other’s company.

  As they left the dining room, Stanley paused to say hello to a pale, stooped individual just entering with some other men. George recognized Representative Stout, one of the Wade-Stevens gang. He and Stanley whispered like old cronies. George continued to believe that his brother had entrenched himself with the radicals out of expediency rather than conviction.

  Stout rejoined his friends, and the brothers went outside. “Going to work now?” Stanley asked. George said no, he planned to walk down three blocks to see whether the Evening Star had posted any recent bulletins.

  “I’ve taken to relying on the correspondents for accurate news. You boys in Stanton’s office seem to publish what’s favorable and quash the rest.”

  The insult galled Stanley, but he could think of no retort; unfortunately, his brother was right. He fell in step and accompanied him to the Star offices, a corner building on the wrong side of the avenue at Eleventh Street. They found a crowd of almost a hundred people reading the long handwritten strips hanging outside.

  Latest from the Seat of War

  General Lee Surprised

  General Stoneman Playing

  the Mischief with His Cavalry

  in the Rear of the Rebels

  Enemy Menaces Fredericksburg;

  Our Virginia Correspondents Report

  Terrible Fighting Saturday & Sunday at Chancellorsville

  Scowling, George said, “Old hash. I read it all yesterday. I must be going—”

  “Wait a moment,” Stanley said. “They’re bringing out a new one.”

  The crowd shifted and whispered in anticipation as a man in shirt sleeves appeared with a long sheet trailing from his hand. He moved a ladder, climbed up to the line strung across the building, and attached the hand-printed bulletin.

  Thrilling News from the Army!

  Hooker All Right!!!

  Prodigies of Valor Performed

  by Our Men—Thousands of

  Enemy Prisoners Taken

  General Stonewall Jackson

  Said to Be Severely Wounded

  Almost instantly, there was reaction.

  “We won! Fighting Joe’s done it!”

  “Bring those prisoners back, and we’ll hang ’em.”

  “Lookit that—Jackson got what he deserves.”

  Stanley tapped fingertips against his waistcoat. “If those reports are true—”

  George didn’t hear. For the second time that morning, he felt as though he had been hit. Blurry pictures swam in his head. He saw the strange, shy Presbyterian boy from the hills of western Virginia who had become his friend. Even in his youth, and despite his peculiarities, Jackson had seemed to carry a promise of greatness that was indefinable but very real.

  George remembered after-hours hashes and Jackson fastidiously avoiding most of the food because he feared to disrupt his digestion. He remembered calling him Tom and sitting with him, and with Orry and Sam Grant, after the capture of Mexico City. He remembered Jackson ordering a glass of wine and tasting it once, while the rest of them swilled beer.

  The bulletin rattled in the breeze. It only said reported, and experience reminded George that many such bulletins proved wrong in whole or in part. He had a bad feeling about this one, though.

  He realized Stanley had spoken. “What did you say?”

  “I remarked that if the rumor about Jackson is true, it will be a blessing for the Union. An even greater one if the wound proves mortal
.”

  “Shut up, Stanley. Save your stupid remarks for that vengeful crowd you’re so chummy with.”

  “I’ll say anything about a traitor that I damn well—”

  “No, you won’t. He was my friend.”

  Stanley opened his mouth, but just as quickly closed it. Head lowered slightly, George continued to fix him with a baleful stare for another few seconds. Then, stiff-backed, he turned and walked around the corner and out of sight.

  Some in the crowd had overheard the exchange. One man thrust his chin toward Stanley. “What did that officer say? That Stonewall was his friend?”

  “Anybody who’d admit that oughta be lynched,” a fat woman said.

  “I share that sentiment,” Stanley declared. He regretted his impulse to breakfast with George and again thought of calling him to the attention of Colonel Baker.

  78

  VIRGILIA KNEW SHE WOULD suffer for going to Washington. When she eventually returned to Aquia Creek, the woman recently installed as head of the hospital nurses would chastise her for leaving when so many wounded were coming in from Chancellorsville. General Hooker’s great advance had met with failure there, something not yet widely known in the capital, Virgilia discovered.

  Virgilia’s conscience had prompted her to stay on duty, and she would have but for several circumstances. She had waited nearly four weeks for an appointment with Miss Dix. Others could pick up her work during an absence of a day and a half. And she had to do something about her situation because it had become intolerable.

  The new hospital supervisor, Elvira Neal, was professionally trained. She had, in fact, traveled to Britain before the war to study at one of the Nightingale schools. During her interview on the morning George saw her, Virgilia carefully praised this aspect of Mrs. Neal’s background, even though doing so made her gorge rise.

  At last she came to the purpose of the appointment. She requested a transfer to another hospital. Choosing words carefully, she said that her personality and that of the widowed Mrs. Neal appeared to clash. She believed each could work more effectively if they worked separately.

  “And that is why you left your post at this critical period?” Miss Dix asked. “To seek a personal accommodation?”

  Virgilia’s temper boiled up. “I see nothing wrong with that, so long as it promotes better—”

  “There is a great deal wrong with it, given the importance of the current campaign in Virginia. I shall take your petition under advisement, but not with haste, and, I warn you, not with a positive attitude. You have a good record, Miss Hazard. But this has blemished it. Good morning.”

  Virgilia left, silently cursing Miss Dix as a damned opinionated cow.

  She reboarded the street railway and gradually calmed down. She liked the nursing service. Hence she was glad she hadn’t brought up all the accusations she might have made against Mrs. Neal. They were more personal than professional anyway. The woman was a sentimentalist, a peace Democrat who couldn’t say enough in praise of McClellan or in. criticism of men such as Stevens and Stanton. From the start, the two women had disliked and distrusted each other. Their politics only exacerbated the situation.

  I should have expected it would go the way it did, she thought. A small sigh earned her a stare from the man sitting next to her. He noticed her bosom and started to speak. She glared, and he changed seats.

  A growling emptiness reminded her she had eaten nothing since waking up in the cheap hotel where she had spent the night. She saw Willard’s on the next corner and left the car. She was at the dining-room door when a group of men came out.

  “Congressman Stout—”

  He turned. She held her breath—did he recognize her?

  Yes! He lowered the hat he had been settling on his wavy dark hair. “Gentlemen, excuse me. An old friend. Thank you for your time; we shall pursue the matter.”

  Sam Stout ignored the faintly lewd chuckles of a couple of his friends and shook her hand. “Miss Hazard. How are you?”

  “Pleased that you remember my name.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t? What are you doing in the city?”

  “I had a meeting with Miss Dix on some pressing administrative matters. I hated to leave the hospital, but it couldn’t be helped. Is there any news of General Hooker?”

  “None but what the papers carry. My friend Stanton guards those telegraph receivers carefully.” Stout glanced around, quickly evaluating all the men and women in the busy lobby. He did it casually, without attracting attention, which caused Virgilia to admire him all the more.

  She was elated to see him. On a previous visit to Washington, she had made some inquiries about his personal life. He had no children; his wife, a girlhood sweetheart from Indiana, was apparently barren. A description of the woman revealed another tidbit. She was thin, with a chest as flat as a piece of lumber. Virgilia thought it might be useful to know she offered something Stout’s wife did not.

  His face grave, Stout said, “I would be most interested in hearing about current conditions in the hospitals. Whether you have the equipment you need, drugs in sufficient quantity—”

  Clever man. Using the same pretext she had employed the day they met, he was speaking loudly and clearly to offset any suggestion of impropriety. A clerk at the reception counter had recognized Stout and was listening, she noticed. “I believe there’s a quiet parlor just up this hallway, Miss Hazard. We could sit and chat there, if it would not interfere with your schedule.”

  His steady gaze spoke what was really on his mind. Virgilia began to feel light-headed and perspire, constricted by her layers of clothing.

  Taking polite hold of her elbow, he guided her along the deserted corridor that had the woolly, musty odor of hotels everywhere. The parlor, with several small tables and chairs scattered about, was empty.

  Stout was no fool; he left the door wide open, though he did choose a table where they couldn’t be seen unless someone walked into the room.

  He laid his hat on the table and his fawn gloves and silver-handled stick beside it. His hair oil had a citrus tang. His skin was whiter than she remembered and his great hooking brows, in contrast, coal black. “I must say, Miss Hazard, you look wonderfully fit.” The resonant voice reached deep inside her, stirring—

  Be careful. Don’t make any casual bargains. He’s a married man. He can’t be plucked like an apple on a low branch.

  “Thank you, Congressman.”

  An eloquent gesture at a plush chair. “Won’t you sit down? How are conditions at Aquia Creek?”

  “The work’s arduous, but you know how strongly I feel about the cause we serve.”

  “I well remember,” he answered, nodding. “It’s one of many reasons I admire you.” He studied her mouth, smiled a little. She felt faint. He didn’t press.

  “Our supplies and food never seem adequate,” she continued.

  “Even so, the job you ladies do is remarkable.”

  “It’s never good enough to satisfy me, Congressman.”

  “Sam, if you please.”

  “All right. My first name is—”

  “Virgilia. It’s a lovely name.”

  “You have such a grand voice it makes any name sound splendid.”

  His gaze moved past her to the parlor door. The corridor remained quiet. He seemed to be pondering his next gambit. Virgilia’s eyes encouraged him.

  At length he said, “I was sorry that our first meeting ended on a note that was rather discouraging.”

  “I felt I had to be candid with you, even though I greatly admired your militancy toward the rebels.” She was surprised at the ease with which she had put a catch in her voice. She would never be an accomplished flirt like that empty-headed Ashton Main, but she was learning a trick or two.

  “Do I detect the past tense, Virgilia?”

  She smiled. “A slip of the tongue. My admiration has not abated.”

  Again he glanced toward the hall. Only the distant murmurs of the lobby filled its dusty space
s. Slowly, his right hand rose from his lap. How languorous the hand seemed, moving toward her bodice like some white bird sailing on currents of air. Beginning to tremble, she pressed her legs together as his thumb came to rest on her left breast, his fingers curled against the swelling side.

  She swept her right hand across, closed it on his. She said his first name softly, then shut her eyes. “Oh—”

  In the hall, someone rattled a pail. Stout quickly pulled his hand away. The little exchange had lasted no more than five seconds, but it had clarified everything only hinted at before.

  An elderly Negro in hotel livery appeared, bucket in hand, and began sifting the contents of a sand urn just outside the parlor door. The old man drew out broken cigar butts, bits of paper, and, when he had them all, smoothed the sand and disappeared.

  Virgilia’s face felt as if someone had dashed hot water on it.

  Stout leaned forward. “I want to see you again.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “Our next meeting should be more private, don’t you think?”

  For a dizzying moment, she was tempted. Then she remembered what she stood to lose—or gain. She shook her head. Stout’s polished veneer cracked.

  “You just said—”

  “I do feel—a strong attraction, Sam. But I refuse to involve myself in some—some back-street affair.”

  He draped an arm over his chair and studied her. “Is my wife still the problem?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  Coldly, he said, “If you have a notion that I might throw her over for you or any other woman, you’re mistaken.”

  “I didn’t ask—”

  “Asking isn’t necessary, my dear.” Sarcasm and that great resonant voice combined with devastating results. “Your scheme’s quite clear. I suppose I can’t blame you for hoping, but the hope is misguided. I would never sacrifice what I’ve achieved in this town—and much more that I want to achieve—by making myself morally notorious. Do you know what some of my constituents in Muncie would do if I became embroiled in a scandal? They’d vote me out—and have bubbling tar and hen feathers waiting at the depot when I came home.”