by John Jakes
“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.
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 therefo
re 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 some 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.”