by John Jakes
Peterkin Reynolds gave him a miserable look. “They want to elect him captain, sir.”
An hour later, von Helm returned, trailing fumes of bourbon. “Missed a fine show this evening. Those actors—” His brown eyes grew vacant, then surprised, as he perceived the condition of the hut. “What’s happened here? Where are my things?”
“I had them moved.” Charles lay in his bunk, speaking around the smoldering cigar stub jammed between his teeth. “To the hut of your campaign manager.”
“My—?” Von Helm blinked. “Oh.” Somehow, Charles’s eyes didn’t intimidate him; perhaps he was too drunk. His mouth tucked up at the corners as if pulled on puppet strings. “Very well. Good evening, Captain.” He left.
Charles yanked the cigar from his mouth and indulged in a string of oaths whose fervor concealed his sense of tired defeat. He was still in his twenties and felt twice that. He stood for a while, feeling the book in the pouch under his shirt. At least the battle lines were clear now. Captain Main against the posturing schemer from Charleston.
He remembered something, went outside, and pulled and pried until the small sign came loose. He threw it into the fireplace and watched the flames slowly consume Gentlemen’s Rest. The words might be appropriate to some other army, but they no longer fit this one.
50
STANLEY KNOCKED AND ENTERED the secretary’s office in a state of nerves. He was sure he had been accused and would be demoted or dismissed.
He was astonished to find the boss in a sunny mood, stepping around the office inspecting boxes and barrels packed with personal files and mementos. Cameron’s cheeks had a pink sheen, left by a fresh shave; he smelled of lavender water. His desk was bare, which was unprecedented.
“Stanley, my boy, sit down. I’m clearing out in a hurry, but I wanted a chat with you before I leave.” He waved the younger man to a seat while he took his regular place behind the desk.
Trembling, Stanley lowered his heavy body to the chair. “I was shocked when I heard the news of your resignation last Saturday, sir.”
Cameron put the tips of his thumbs together and touched his index fingers above them, creating a triangle through which he peered at his visitor. “Even in this building, it can be Simon again—or Boss. I’m not particular. The one thing that won’t fit any more is Mr. Secretary.”
“That’s a tragic loss for the war effort, sir.”
The lame remarks brought a tight smile to Cameron’s mouth. He snickered. “Oh, yes, any number of contract holders will say so. But a loyal fellow goes where his superiors think he can do best. Russia’s a mighty long way from home, but I’ll tell you the truth, Stanley—I won’t miss the hurly-burly and backbiting of this town.”
A lie, Stanley thought; the boss had bitten with the best. But all the departmental irregularities had finally forced Lincoln to act, although Cameron was allowed the face-saving fiction that becoming United States minister to Russia was a promotion.
“I imagine you’ll get along with the new man,” Cameron continued in a relaxed way. “He won’t be as loose as I’ve been. He’s a champion of the colored people”—Cameron’s brief fling as an apostle of abolition had been forgotten by virtually everyone, including himself—“and pretty hard on those who don’t come up to expectations. Now you take me—I was more inclined to overlook a mistake or a slight.” The smile hardened ever so little. “Or an act of will. Yes, sir, you’ll have to toe the mark for the next occupant of this office.”
Stanley gnawed his bottom lip. “Sir, I’m in the dark. I don’t even know the name of the new secretary.”
“Oh, you don’t?” Up flew the white brows. “I thought Senator Wade would have confided in you. If he didn’t, I spose you’ll just have to wait for the public announcement.”
And there he left it, while Stanley twisted on the hook Cameron had snagged into him. Surprisingly, the older man laughed before he went on.
“I don’t blame you too much, Stanley. I’d have done the same thing in your position. You turned out to be an apt pupil. Learned how to apply each and every lesson I taught you. ’Course, now I look back and reflect that maybe I taught you one too many.”
The smile spread, infected with a jolly malice. “Well, my lad, let me give you one final bit of advice before we shake hands and part. Sell as many pieces of footwear as you can, for as much as you can, for as long as you can. And save the money. You’ll need it, because in this town someone is always waiting. Someone who wants to sell you out. Someone who will sell you out.”
Stanley felt he might have a heart seizure. Cameron sprang around the desk, clasped Stanley’s hand so hard it hurt, then said, “You must excuse me now,” and turned his back. Stanley left him rummaging cheerfully among the packed ruins of his empire.
The next night, George came home with news for Constance. “It’s Stanton.”
“But he’s a Democrat!”
“He’s also a zealot who can please the radicals. Those who favor him call him a patriot. If you’re on the other side, the descriptions include dogmatic and devious. They say he’s willing to gain his ends by any means. And likely to use the suspension of habeas corpus—I mean use it widely. I wouldn’t want to be a dissenting newspaper editor or an advocate of a soft peace and come to Mr. Stanton’s attention. He may be Lincoln’s appointee, but he’s the creature of Wade and that crowd.” A bemused smile softened his severity. “Did you know Stanton once tried a case involving McCormick’s reaper, and Lincoln went along as a junior counsel? Stanton snubbed him as a bumpkin. Incredible how people change. This lunatic world, too—”
“Not you and I,” she said, kissing him gently.
General McClellan recovered from his severe case of typhoid but remained the victim of another disease, for which all but his fiercest partisans excoriated him. Lincoln called the malady the slows. Under increasing internal and external pressures, the President issued Special War Order Number 1 on the last day of January. The order commanded the general-in-chief to get the Army of the Potomac moving toward Manassas by February 22, no later.
The February issue of the Atlantic printed new verses for “John Brown’s Body” written by Mrs. Howe; George and his wife and son sang the stirring “Battle Hymn” while Patricia played. The song fit the new, more aggressive mood of the capital. The figure of Stanton, small and fierce, was being widely seen at all hours in the buildings on President’s Park. George observed him several times in the Ordnance Department but had no reason to speak with him.
From the Western theater came a burst of news so glorious it produced mobs and drunken jubilation outside the newspaper offices, where long sheets summarizing the latest telegraphic dispatches hung. A combined river and land offensive had brought the surrender of Fort Henry, a key rebel bastion on the Tennessee, just below the Kentucky border.
Ten days later, Fort Donelson, on the Cumberland, fell. Both victories were theoretically the work of the departmental commander, General Halleck. But the man given the hero’s wreath by the correspondents was an Academy graduate who had been out of George’s thoughts a long time. As a West Point first classman, Sam Grant had once taken Orry’s part when Elkanah Bent was deviling him.
Sam Grant. Astonishing. He and George had drunk together in cantinas after the Mexico City campaign. A likable officer and brave enough. But a soldier without the stamp of brilliance that was now on Tom Jackson, for example. The last George had heard, Grant had failed in the army out West and resigned because of problems with drinking.
Now here he was, just promoted from brigadier to major general of volunteers and nicknamed “Unconditional Surrender” because, when answering a request for terms from Donelson’s commander, he said he would accept nothing less. I propose to move immediately upon your works, he wrote Buckner—and then he did it, breaking the Confederacy’s hold on western Kentucky, western Tennessee, and the upper Mississippi. The South reeled, the North rejoiced, and Grant’s name became known to every schoolboy whose parents read a paper.
Offsetting this, bad rumors continued to seep from the Executive Mansion. The President suffered from depression so profound some said it bordered on insanity. He roamed sleeplessly at night or lay motionless for hours, to rise and tell of queer prophetic dreams. The Washington gossip chefs, whom Constance said must be nearly as many as the uniformed men in town, had a variety of tidbits to offer, something for every political or emotional palate. Lincoln was going mad on behalf of the Union. Mary Lincoln, who acknowledged a lot of rebel relatives in Kentucky and the Confederate Army, was a spy. Twelve-year-old Willie Lincoln was fighting typhoid. That turned out to be true; the boy died two days before McClellan was to take Manassas.
McClellan did not; the army stayed put. And Lincoln did not show up at any of the official observances of Washington’s birthday, although the armies on both sides celebrated the holiday, as was the custom before the war.
Billy paid a surprise visit one night. The brothers fell to exchanging complaints over whiskey before supper.
Billy: “What the devil’s wrong with Mac? He was supposed to save the Union—week before last, wasn’t it?”
George: “How should I know what’s wrong? I’m nothing but a glorified clerk. All I hear is street talk. You should know more than I; he’s your commander.”
“He’s your classmate.”
“What a sarcasm. You sound like a Republican.”
“Staunch.”
“Well,” George said, “all I hear is this. Little Mac outnumbers the enemy two or three to one, yet he keeps asking for postponements and reinforcements. Otherwise, he says, he can’t be certain of success—which, he then repeats in the next breath, is guaranteed once he does move. God knows what goes on inside his head. Tell me about your new men.”
“They’ve had nearly seven weeks of training, but of course good work in training is no yardstick of performance in a fight. Last week the battalion built a big floating raft on the canal—the next best thing to a pontoon bridge, which we’ve yet to try. The President came down to watch. He did his best to show interest in the work, but looked worn out. Positively ancient. He—”
Both looked up as Constance came in, pale.
“There’s an orderly from your battalion at the door.”
Billy rushed from the room. George paced, trying to overhear the muted voices. His brother returned, settling his cap on his head. “We’re ordered to camp to prepare for departure on the cars.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
They embraced hastily. “Take care of yourself, Billy.”
“I will. Maybe Mac’s finally moving.”
And out Billy went into the dark.
51
CHARLES KNEW IT MEANT trouble when Calbraith Butler summoned him after tattoo and he found the colonel as well as the major waiting.
“Please sit if you wish, Charles,” Hampton said after Charles presented himself formally. He found Hampton’s sober tone ominous.
“No, thank you, sir.”
Hampton continued. “I rode here because I wanted to speak to you personally. I am faced with a thorny situation in Major Butler’s command.”
Butler said, “Sir, I prefer the word nasty.”
Hampton sighed. “I’ll not deny the rightness of that.”
Charles marveled at how fit the colonel looked in a winter that was ruining the health of much younger men. He noticed the colonel’s sword—slimmer, not the one he usually wore. Could it be the one Joe Johnston had given him in token of friendship—and until the rank of brigadier could be offered in fact?
“There is no point wasting words, Charles. Major Butler is in receipt of a petition from members of your troop. They request a new election of officers.”
His cheeks numbed suddenly. Once aware of the electioneering, he had tried to monitor it discreetly. Von Helm wanted the captaincy and had promised Julius Wanderly a promotion if he got it. Peterkin Reynolds remained deferential to Charles but had grown less friendly. Was he to be raised to second lieutenant?
“Signed by how many men, sir?” Charles asked.
Embarrassed, Butler said, “Over half the troop.”
“God above.” Charles managed a laugh. “I knew I wasn’t well liked, but that downright makes me sound like a Yankee. I had no idea—”
“You are an exceptionally good officer—” Hampton began.
“I agree,” Butler said.
“—but that isn’t the same as being a popular one. As you know, Charles, the men are not entitled to hold new elections until their one-year enlistments come up for renewal. However, I thought I should advise you of how matters stood and ask—”
This time he interrupted Hampton. “Let them go ahead. Tomorrow—I don’t care.” He did but hid it, standing rigidly straight.
Frowning, Butler asked, “But what if you lose?”
“Begging the major’s pardon—why do you state it that way? You know I’ll lose. The number of signatures on the petition guarantees it. I still say let them hold the election. I’ll find some other way to serve.”
The senior officers exchanged looks. Charles realized this had been planned with some care, and not solely to administer bad medicine.
Hampton spoke quietly: “I appreciate the spirit in which you said that, Charles. I appreciate all the qualities that make you a fine officer. Your bravery is beyond dispute. You have a father’s concern for your men. I suspect it’s your discipline that precipitated this, since so many in the legion still fancy themselves Carolina gentlemen, rather than soldiers awaiting the sanguinary pleasure of General McClellan. Also, your Academy training may have worked against you.”
It hadn’t worked against Stuart or Jackson or a score of others, Charles reflected with bitterness. But it was stupid to blame anyone else for his own shortcomings.
Hampton’s voice rose emphatically. “I do not want you lost to this command. Nor does Major Butler. Therefore, if you don’t care to campaign against your, ah, opponent—”
“I wouldn’t waste a minute on that stupid Dutchman!” Charles caught his breath. “I’m sorry, sir.” Hampton waved the apology aside.
“We have another arrangement to propose,” Butler said. “You’re a loner, Charles, but that can be valuable. Would you consider leading Abner Woolner and a few more of my best men in a squad of scouts?”
Hampton leaned forward, half his face in darkness. “It’s the most necessary and most dangerous of all mounted duty. A scout is constantly at hazard. Only the best can handle the job.”
Charles pondered, but not long. “I’ll accept on one condition. Before I start, I’d like a short furlough.”
That brought another frown from the major. “But the whole army’s moving, or soon will be.”
“To the rear, I’m told. To the Rapidan and the Rappahannock. The lady lives near the Rappahannock. Fredericksburg. I can rejoin the legion quickly if necessary.”
Hampton smiled. “Request granted. Do you concur, Major Butler?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then,” said Charles, “I accept duty as a scout. With pleasure.”
Even though the rejection hurt, and would for a long time, he felt, at the same time, set free. He was happy. Did a manumitted black man experience similar feelings, he wondered as he walked back to his hut at a brisk pace, whistling.
His military passport, countersigned in Richmond, noted his age, height, complexion, hair and eye color, and stated that he had permission to travel to the vicinity of Fredericksburg, subject to the discretion of the military authorities. If that discretion had somehow proved an obstacle, Charles would have put the spurs to Sport, jumped over the authorities, and taken his chances.
As he crossed the miles to Spotsylvania County, first through rainstorms, then a cold snap that whitely crisped the dead fields and bare trees, his eagerness to reach Barclay’s Farm increased, together with anxiety that he would find her gone again. At last he saw the sturdy stone house and wooden barns an
d outbuildings on the north side of the narrow road.
“And smoke coming out of the chimney,” he yelled to the gelding.
It was a fine farm, well maintained despite the war. From the appearance of the fields, he judged that her property spread on both sides of the road. The main house had a look of great age and strength, fortresslike behind a pair of ninety-foot red oaks that must have sprung up wild, hunting the sun they needed. Since the house was old, the trees had probably been saplings when it was built. Now they had grown and spread until their thick limbs hung over the wooden roof shakes and touched the front dormers of an upstairs floor or attic. Wonderful trees, made for climbing and making him wish he was a boy again.
As he reined in, in the dooryard, he heard a squeak and whine. Away to his right he glimpsed a jet of sparks in the dark interior of an outbuilding. He dismounted, and the pedals of the grinding wheel stopped squeaking. A Negro of about twenty emerged from the building. He wore heavy plow shoes, old pants, a mended shirt. He had both hands on the curved scythe he had been sharpening.
“Something we can do for you, sir?”
“This man’s all right, Boz.”
The new voice belonged to another Negro, older, moon-faced, with few teeth; he appeared from behind the house, a sack of henhouse feed over his shoulder. Charles had met him in Richmond the night of the ball.
“How are you, Captain?” the older black asked. “You look like you rode through eighty acres of mud.”
“I did. Is she home, Washington?”
He let out a kind of hee-hee laugh. “Indeed she is. It’s early for a social call, but don’t you mind that—she’s always up before daylight. Probably frying our morning ham right now.” Washington jerked his head to the right. “Back door’s quicker.”
Charles walked past him and up the wooden stoop, spurs jingling. “Put the captain’s horse in the barn, Boz,” the older freedman said to the younger. Charles knew he should look after Sport himself, but all he wanted to do was rap on the door, hoping he didn’t appear or smell filthy. He could scarcely believe his own excited state.