Love and War: The North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

One of the beams eaten by the flame disappeared. The rafter above him sagged, broke, and rained sparks and flaming splinters on him. He smelled his hair burning as he gasped and strained, finally pulling Quincy’s corpse into the open.

  A box of cartridges exploded as he snatched the coal bomb and limped to a safe spot away from the building, whose glare washed out the red lights over Petersburg. All the ammunition blew, the reports rolling away through the night like the volleying of regiments in battle.

  Bent. Elkanah Bent. By what twisted route had he come from the United States Army to this place? Transformed himself to Captain Bellingham? Embroiled himself in the plot?

  He had two pieces of evidence of that plot. He put the bomb on the ground, unrolled the plan, and examined it in the light from the burning building. At first, because he was so shaken, the arrangements of smaller rectangles within larger ones made no sense. Then he realized he was looking at diagrams representing the different floors of the Treasury Building.

  He saw inked crosses, each labeled. Those in the cellar said COAL BOMBS. In a suite of second-floor offices identified by the letters J. D., the label was INCIND. DEVICE. The enormity of it left him weak with awe.

  He waited long enough to be sure the collapsing implement building wouldn’t threaten the other structures. The wind was blowing flame and smoke out above the James, where he envisioned Elkanah Bent’s body drifting seaward in the current. He saw an imaginary picture of cockeyed General Butler on a pier at City Point, struck dumb by the sight of a corpse floating by.

  Once Orry started to recover from the shock of Bent’s death, a different kind of shock set in. It involved Orry’s own behavior. He clearly recalled knowing Bent was whipped, able to be taken prisoner without further struggle. Old grudges had driven Orry’s arm then, kept him hitting his tormentor unnecessarily, until Bent fell through the window. He had gone far beyond the demands of self-preservation. He had lost control. As he stood in the glare of the fire, he wondered how a human being could feel so glad someone was dead and so guilty and ashamed at the same time.

  The exploding ammunition reminded him that people would be drawn by the noise and flames. He didn’t want to waste time on explanations to farmers or military patrols in the area. He forced himself from his shock-induced lethargy, starting toward the farmhouse and discovering that in the fight he had twisted his left ankle. It hurt and made him limp.

  Nevertheless, he conducted a rapid search of the house. In the attic he found confirmation of something that had come to mind earlier. The attic was arranged with a few furniture pieces and a square of old carpet—a living area. A large crate standing on end served as an open-sided press for three suits. A few books lay on a smaller crate beside a cot: The Prince, The Prose Romances of Edgar A. Poe, and his Tales as well. Beneath these, Orry found gold-stamped, leather-bound copies of the proceedings of the Georgia and South Carolina secession conventions.

  Israel Quincy, then, had also searched the house, intentionally failing to discover Powell or his hideaway. Orry didn’t know whether Powell would be caught. Perhaps not. But the conspiracy had been aborted a second time and, more important, Orry could now show proofs of its existence.

  He limped down the attic stairs and out the back door. All that remained of the implement building were mounds of bright embers. With no more ammunition exploding, he heard voices and horses from the direction of the road.

  As fast as he could, he retrieved his evidence and hobbled back across the plowed field to his horse, tethered in the orchard. Mounting, he saw a farmer’s wagon pulled up beside the burned building. Three men sat in the wagon, clear as black-paper stencils against the light. Orry reined his horse’s head around and took the road to Richmond.

  Wearing a striped nightshirt, a sleepy Seddon stared at the man whose pounding on the street door had awakened him. Orry shoved a roll of heavy paper and a lump of coal into the secretary’s hand.

  “These prove the whole story—these and Quincy’s body. He was one of them. When the fire’s out, I’m sure we’ll find unmelted pieces of the Whitworth rifles. Enough evidence for any reasonable man,” he finished, unable to keep bitterness entirely contained.

  “This is astounding. You must come inside and give me a fuller explanation of—”

  “Later, sir,” Orry interrupted. “I have one more task to do to close the books on this affair. Be careful of that coal. If you try to burn it, you’ll blow yourself up.”

  He limped away, vanishing in the dark.

  When he drew the empty navy Colt at the front door of the house on Grace Street, Orry noticed dark speckling on the butt. Bent’s blood. With a shiver, he grasped the muzzle and beat on the door with the revolver. The bell had drawn no response.

  “Someone open up.” He leaned back to roar at the upper story. “If you don’t, I’ll blow the lock off.”

  That got immediate response, but it came from the other side of the street where gas lamps shed a pale, misty light. A grumpy householder flung up a window, snatched off his nightcap and shouted, “Do you know the hour, sir? Half past three in the morning. Stop that racket, or I’ll come down and horsewhip—The front door opened. Orry shouldered inside, expecting to see Huntoon’s face. Instead, it was Homer’s, half illuminated by an upraised lamp.

  “Tell them I want to see them, Homer. Both of them.”

  “Mr. Orry, sir, they aren’t—”

  He ignored the old man and stalked to the stairs. “Ashton? James? Get down here, damn you.”

  The wild echo showed him how close he was to losing control again. He gripped the banister post and held tight, calming little. He sensed Homer behind him; a light pool spread around his feet. Then a second glow, upstairs, preceded Huntoon, who cautiously approached the head of the stairs. Ashton followed carrying the lamp. Neither was dressed for bed.

  Orry looked up as she gripped the white-painted wood of the rail to the left of the landing. It was one of the few times he had ever seen his sister frightened.

  “An old scene repeats itself, doesn’t it, Ashton? I sent you away once in South Carolina and now I’m doing it in Virginia. This time, however, the stakes are higher. You don’t just risk my anger if you stay. You’ll be arrested.”

  Huntoon made a little retching sound and stepped back from the top step. Ashton seized his sleeve. “Stand up, you rotten coward. I said stand up.”

  She hurt him with her hand. But he steadied. Leaning over and looking down, she fairly spat, “Let’s hear the rest, brother dear.

  A cold shrug. “Simple enough. I have delivered evidence to Mr. Seddon sufficient to hang you both. I’m referring to a coal bomb and the marked plan of the President’s offices. I imagine the provost’s men are on their way to the farm, where they’ll find the remains of the rifles, Powell’s personal belongings, and Israel Quincy’s body. Your informant, the one who called himself Bellingham—he’s dead, too, drowned in the river.”

  “You did that?” Huntoon whispered.

  Orry nodded. “The one thing I have not yet done is implicate the two of you. I don’t know why I should grant you the slightest immunity just because we’re related, but I find myself doing it. Although not for long. You have one hour to remove yourselves from the city. If you don’t, I’ll go straight back to Seddon and charge you with treason and attempted assassination.”

  “Lord God,” Homer said in a shaken voice. Orry had forgotten he was there.

  Ashton shrieked at him: “You damned nosy nigger, get out of here. Get out!” He did, taking the light with him.

  Ashton’s effort to smile through her rage was grotesque. “Orry—you must appreciate—even to begin to prepare to leave will take far more time than—”

  “One hour.” He pointed to a tall clock ticking away, its face a metal shimmer in the gloom. “I’ll be back at a quarter to five. You ought to hang, the lot of you—I include your scummy friend Powell, wherever he is. If any of you are in Richmond an hour from now, you will.”

  He walked o
ut.

  When he rode back to Grace Street at half past four, the pre-dawn air was cold. He shivered again, starting to feel genuinely sick from the shocks and exertions of the preceding hours. He reined in before the brick house. The windows were dark. He tied the horse, climbed the stoop, tried the front door. Locked.

  On the side terrace, he broke a pane of the French windows with the Colt muzzle, reached through, and let himself in. He roamed the rooms. Empty, every last one.

  In their bedrooms—separate ones, he noted—clothes were strewn everywhere. Drawers hung open. Some had been left on the floor, partially emptied. Strangely, he felt no satisfaction, Merely tiredness and melancholy as he struggled downstairs again, still favoring the twisted ankle.

  What had possessed Ashton? What demons of ambition? He would never know. Somehow, he was thankful

  He started as the tall clock chimed a quarter to five.

  By late the following afternoon, several versions of the assassination story were circulating in the offices around Capitol Square. About four, Seddon approached Orry’s desk. Orry held a government memorandum and appeared to be reading it—an illusion, Seddon realized, taking note of Orry’s blank stare.

  He cleared his throat, smiled, and said, “Orry, I have some splendid news. I have just talked with the President, who wants to present you with a written commendation. It’s the equivalent of a decoration for gallantry in the field and will be accorded the same treatment. Published in at least one paper in your home state—”

  Seddon faltered. On Orry’s face there had appeared disbelief and disgust of such ferocity they alarmed the secretary. Avoiding Orry’s eyes, he went on, less heartily, “The commendation will also be entered on the permanent Roll of Honor maintained in the adjutant general’s office.” Cloth and metal couldn’t be spared for making decorations; the Roll of Honor was the Confederacy’s substitute.

  “Mr. Davis would like to award the commendation in his office tomorrow. May we arrange a suitable time?”

  “I don’t want his damned commendation. He drove my wife out of Richmond.”

  Seddon swallowed. “Do you mean to say, Colonel—you will—refuse the honor?”

  “Yes. That will certainly cause another scandal, won’t it? My wife and I have grown used to them.”

  “Your bitterness is understandable, but—”

  Orry interrupted, an uncharacteristic slyness in his eyes. “I’ll refuse it, that is, unless you and Mr. Davis also promise me an immediate transfer to General Pickett’s staff. I’m tired of this office, this work, this pig-mire of a government—”

  He swept all the papers from his desk with one slash of his arm. As the sheets fluttered down, he rose and walked out.

  Heads swiveled. Clerks buzzed. Seddon’s face lost its conciliatory softness. “I am certain a transfer can be arranged,” he said loudly.

  112

  IN THE AFTERMATH OF the Eamon Randolph case, Jasper Dills began to worry about his stipend. He heard nothing of or from Elkanah Bent. He knew Baker had discharged Starkwether’s son because of brutality in the Randolph matter. Beyond that, the record was blank.

  Work taxed Dills to the utmost these days. Although some of his employers were Democrats, none wanted a Copperhead or peace candidate elected president; a shortened war meant diminished profits. Nevertheless, he decided he must make time to call in the chief of the special service bureau. He did so in late June. Baker’s initial response was curt.

  “I don’t know what’s happened to Dayton. Nor do I care. I followed instructions and dismissed him. Then I forgot about him.”

  “Blast it, Colonel, you must have some information. Is he still in the city? If not, where is he? Will you force me to pose my questions to Mr. Stanton and tell him you refused to help?”

  Instantly, Baker grew cooperative, though Dills wished he hadn’t when the bearded man said, “I have it on good authority that Dayton was in Richmond about a month ago.”

  “Richmond! Why?”

  “I don’t know. I was only told that he was seen.”

  “Is it possible he defected to the other side?”

  Baker shrugged. “Possible. He was pretty angry when I let him go. He was also, in my opinion, unbalanced. I frankly wish I’d never taken him on. I know your reputation, Mr. Dills. I know you have a lot of friends in this government. But I don’t know why you’re so interested in Dayton. What’s the connection?”

  By then Dills had decided he would get no help here and must go higher. “I’m not obliged to answer your questions, Colonel Baker. Good morning.”

  On Independence Day, a Monday, Dills did go higher, setting out in his carriage for the War Department. While it was technically a holiday, and the Thirty-eighth Congress was rushing to adjourn, many government offices stayed open because of the pressures of war and politics. Things were not going well on any front. The resignation of Treasury Secretary Chase, first submitted to the President last winter, had finally been accepted. Chase, presumed to have been encouraged by the same anonymous radicals who had helped draft the Pomeroy Circular, which called for Lincoln’s defeat, was stepping down to become a presidential candidate, so rumor said. Literally overnight, his departure created widespread fear that the government was bankrupt.

  Telegraph dispatches from the Shenandoah Valley told of increased guerrilla action—torn-up railroad tracks, burned bridges—and of the steady retreat of Union forces toward Harpers Ferry. No one in the North had quite recovered from the news of the enormous number of casualties in the spring campaign. To this was added the May humiliation at New Market, when Sigel was once again whipped, this time by a rebel force that included two hundred and forty-seven boys—youthful cadets from VMI, the military school where Jackson had taught.

  Reaching his destination, Dills alighted on the avenue and wove his way through a large crowd of dusky contrabands, whom he carefully avoided touching in any way. The contrabands loitered on the walks at the edge of President’s Park, hungry faces and envious eyes turned toward the picnic in progress on the grounds. Swings hung from the shade trees, and food and drink covered great trestle tables set up between the War Department and the Executive Mansion. With the consent and encouragement of the government, the picnic was being held to raise money for a new District of Columbia school for Negro children. The guests, numbering several hundred already, consisted mostly of well-dressed civilians from the town’s colored community. Here and there Dills saw white faces, which disgusted him even more than the cause itself.

  Dills had an appointment with Stanton’s flunky, Stanley Hazard. Though a mediocrity, Hazard was rich and had somehow acquired a circle of influential friends. Dills supposed he had done it the customary way, by buying them. What made Hazard unusual was his ability to stay balanced at the fulcrum of the wild teeterboard of party politics. He chummed with the politicians who wanted to defeat Lincoln at the polls yet worked for a man considered to be the President’s staunchest supporter and friend. Stanley Hazard’s survival was doubly remarkable in view of the stories one heard about him, particularly that he was usually drunk by half past nine every morning. When he was extremely busy, no later than ten.

  On tiny feet, the tiny lawyer climbed to Stanley’s office. In one corner stood a brass tripod holding burning cubes of heavy incense. To mask the odor of spirits?

  The incense did nothing to mask the fuzzy expression on Stanley’s face as he gestured Dills to a chair. Glancing out the window, Dills allowed himself one pleasantry. “I must say, passing through that mob, I wondered whether I was in the District or the palace gardens of Haiti.”

  Stanley laughed. “What about a West African village? Did you happen to notice what the darkies are serving down there? I’m guessing it’s barbecued effigy of Bob Lee.”

  Dills pursed his lips, for him the equivalent of hysterical laughter. “I know you’re busy, Mr. Hazard, so let me come to the point. Do you recall a man you interviewed for a post with Colonel Baker? A man named Ezra Dayton?”
<
br />   Stanley sat up straighter. “I do indeed. You recommended him, but he was discharged. Highly unsatisfactory—”

  “I deeply regret that. I had no way of anticipating it. What brings me here is the need to learn anything I can about Dayton’s whereabouts, for reasons I wish I could divulge to you but cannot.”

  “Privileged communication with a client?”

  “Something like that, yes. In return for assistance from your department, I’m prepared to make a generous contribution to the political candidate of your choice. On the Republican side, I would hope.”

  “Naturally,” Stanley said, not even raising a brow to question the probity of the offer. “Let’s see whether we have anything.” He summoned an assistant, who was gone for ten minutes, leaving the two men to uneasy conversation punctuated by long silences. The clerk returned, whispered in Stanley’s ear, departed. Stanley sighed.

  “Absolutely nothing, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry. I trust the outcome won’t affect your pledge, since I accepted your offer in good faith.” Dills glimpsed the threat behind the fulsome smile. He reeled when Stanley added, “A thousand would be most generous.”

  “A thousand! I was thinking of much—” Hastily, Dills swallowed. How could such a puffy, pale creature carry an aura of power? But he did. “Certainly. I’ll send my draft in the morning.”

  Stanley wrote and blotted a slip of paper. “Payable to that account.”

  “Very good. Thank you for your time, Mr. Hazard.” About to close the door from the anteroom side, he observed Stanley bent over a lower drawer of his desk, as if hunting something. Stanley glanced up, scowled, and Dills quickly closed the door.

  Bent was gone—and the information had cost him a thousand dollars. Beyond that, unless he could think of some other avenue where he might search for Starkwether’s boy, the handsome stipend would disappear. He was in a foul mood as he left the building and crossed the park toward his waiting carriage.

  Children at the picnic scampered round and round him, dark leaves whirling. He ran them off with a shout and wave of his cane. Though still angry, he was also bemused by the performance of the nimble Mr. Hazard. Dills had definitely smelled whiskey behind the incense. What a miraculous balancing act.