by John Jakes
Prudence spoke last night of her unhappiness over the state of the school. …
“Madeline, I now have fourteen pupils working with alphabet and primer, two almost ready to advance to the Second Reader, and Pride is in the second arithmetic series. I want to buy a geography for him, and slates for the rest. We have just three slates for all, not nearly enough.”
Head down and pensive, Madeline walked beside the schoolteacher on the shore of the Ashley. The spring twilight was settling, hazy and full of shrill night-bird cries. The familiar vista of star-specked water with dense forest beyond usually soothed her. Tonight was different.
“I can’t give you any answer but the one you’ve heard before,” she said. “There’s no money.”
For once the plump teacher seemed to lose her Christian patience. “Your friend George Hazard has it to spare.”
Stopping, Madeline said sharply, “Prudence, I have made it clear that I won’t beg from Orry’s best friend. If we can’t survive by our own wits and initiative, we deserve to fail.”
“That may be noble, but it does very little to further someone’s education.”
“I’m sorry you’re angry. Perhaps I’m wrong, but those are my views. I’ll do all I can to supply what you need as soon as we sell the first rice crop.”
“Bother. I see nothing wrong in asking a small donation from a very rich man who—”
“No,” Madeline said, though she wondered bitterly how she could ever fulfill the dream of building a new Mont Royal when she couldn’t buy even the smallest necessities for its school. “We’ll find some other way, I promise.”
Prudence gave Madeline a bleak look. The two women returned to the whitewashed house in silence. It was an hour before they made up. Madeline spoke first, though Prudence was clearly just as eager. Even so, Madeline felt the emptiness of her promise as she lay in bed that night, sleepless with worry.
Who against all hope believed in hope. Prudence might still be that sort of person. She was not.
30
LATE ON A SHOWERY Saturday in that same month, a horse-drawn cab took Virgilia to a small brick house on South B Street, behind the Capitol. She looked matronly, and somber in contrast to the color in the front yard, where snowy blossoms shed by two dogwoods dusted deep yellow daffodils. A mock orange tree sweetened the air in a way that was appropriate to a season of renewed hope.
Virgilia’s face was drawn, even severe. She rang the bell and exchanged a warm embrace with Lydia Smith, the housekeeper. She followed Lydia to the parlor, where her friend waited with silver tea things.
“Thad—” She caught her breath. He looked white, far older than when she last saw him, months ago. He rose from his chair with great effort.
Lydia tied back draperies to let in more of the gray light, but that did nothing to improve Stevens’s appearance. The housekeeper excused herself. Stevens sat down again. Over the patter of rain, Virgilia heard his labored breathing.
“Sorry to have taken so long to accept your invitation,” she said. “I usually work every Saturday. Today Miss Tiverton’s nephew drove down from Baltimore for a visit. He excused me for the afternoon.”
“How is the old woman? You’ve been her companion for—how long now?”
“Ten months.” Virgilia added cream to her hot tea and sipped. “Her ninetieth birthday falls next Tuesday. Physically, she has tremendous stamina. But her mind—” A shrug said the rest.
“What do you do for her?”
“Sit with her, mostly. Keep her tidy. Clean her up when I must.” In response to Stevens’s grimace, she said, “It isn’t that bad. I had worse duty in the field hospitals during the war.”
“You’re putting a good face on it. Now tell me how you really feel about it.”
A weary sigh. “I hate it. The monotony is terrible. In the nurse corps, I got used to helping people recover, but Miss Tiverton will never recover. I’m nothing more than a caretaker. I suppose I can’t be particular. Jobs for single women are scarce. This was all I could find.”
“Perhaps we can do something about that.” He was about to say more, but his silver teaspoon slipped from his hand. He leaned down to pick it up, and suddenly clutched his back. He straightened slowly. “My God, Virgilia, it’s hell growing old.”
“You don’t look well, Thad.”
“The climate in this town aggravates my asthma. I have trouble breathing, and my head hurts most of the time. No doubt some of the headache comes from warring with that fool in the White House.” Virgilia followed this struggle in the Star but felt far removed from it in Miss Tiverton’s vast, silent house out in Georgetown.
The congressman leaned toward her, his wig slightly off center, as usual, and they fell to discussing recent events. She expressed her scorn for Secretary Seward’s seven-million-dollar folly, the purchase from Russia of the worthless, icebound Alaskan territory. Stevens couldn’t confirm or deny rumors that Jefferson Davis would soon be let out of Fortress Monroe, after payment of enormous bail, to await trial.
They soon came back to the struggle between the Congressional Republicans and the President. To further curb Mr. Johnson’s power, bills had been passed prohibiting him from direct command of the Army. Any orders now had to be transmitted by General Grant, who was more sympathetic to the Radicals; some were even saying he’d be their candidate for President a year hence. A second bill, the Tenure of Office Act, challenged the President even more directly. He couldn’t remove any cabinet official without consent of the Senate.
“Our most pressing problem remains the South,” Stevens went on. “Those damned aristocrats in the Dixie legislatures refuse to call the state conventions demanded by the Reconstruction Act. We’ve put through a second supplementary bill empowering the district military commanders to set up machinery for registering voters, so we can get on with the job. Johnson balks and argues and tries to thwart us at every step. He doesn’t understand the fundamental issue.”
“Which is—”
“Equality. Equality! Every man has an equal right to justice, honesty, and fair play with every other man, and the law should secure him those rights. The same law that condemns or acquits an African should condemn or acquit a white man. That’s the law of God, and it ought to be of the law of the land, but those Southerners choke on the idea, and Johnson repudiates it. And he is supposed to be on our side! I tell you, Virgilia”—he had grown so agitated he spilled tea from the cup he was holding—“I am pushed to desperation by that man. He is obstructionist to the point of being criminal. There is only one remedy.”
“What’s that?”
“Depose him.”
Her dark eyes widened in the watery gloom. “Do you mean impeach him?”
“Yes.”
“On what grounds?”
The hawkish old face at last showed a smile. “Oh, we’ll find those. Ben Butler and some others are searching. None too soon, either. Andrew Johnson is the most dangerous president in the history of the republic.”
Dangerous, or merely obstinate about yielding power to the Congress? Virgilia didn’t ask the question of her friend. She found herself surprisingly unconcerned about the whole matter. Prisoned in the Georgetown mansion caring for Miss Tiverton, she no longer felt any connection with important causes.
“All the key members of the Senate agree about impeachment,” Stevens continued. “Sam Stout agrees …”
The sentence trailed off. He was probing. Calmly, she said, “I wouldn’t know, Thad. I no longer see him.”
“So I heard.” There was a pause. “Sam feels his voting base is secure now. Consequently, he’s announced his intention to divorce Emily and marry some music-hall tart.”
“Her last name’s Canary.” It sounded like unimportant conversation. But her hands trembled; the news had stunned her. “I wish him well.” She really wished him in hell.
Stevens studied her. “You aren’t at all content with your present situation, are you?”
“No. I’m not the
crusader I was ten years ago, but as I said, I feel very isolated, very useless caring for one elderly woman who will never improve.”
“Do you have contact with your family?”
Virgilia avoided his eye. “No. I’m afraid they—they wouldn’t welcome it.” Sometimes, late at night, she longed for it so deeply it brought tears. That too was probably the result of aging, of softening, and growing away from the entrapments of unbridled emotion.
“Well, my dear, I asked you here not only to see you, but also to discuss a possible change of employment. A position you might find more satisfying because you would be helping the most innocent victims of those damned rebels. Children.”
For the second time, he’d stunned her. “What children do you mean?”
“Let me show you. Are you busy tomorrow?”
“No. I’m allowed Sundays to myself.” A melancholy smile. “I usually have nothing to do.”
“Can you be ready at two? Good. My driver and I will call for you in Georgetown.”
At the end of a rutted lane off Tenth Street in the ramshackle Negro Hill section, Stevens and Virgilia came to a white house that showed good care. Two or three large rooms at one side looked like a recent addition; not all of the siding was painted as yet.
When the carriage stopped, Stevens didn’t immediately open the door. “What you’re looking at is an orphanage for homeless Negro children. The children are sheltered and given basic education until they can be placed with foster parents. A man named Scipio Brown founded the orphanage. He ran it personally until he joined a colored regiment. After his discharge he came back and found more waifs than ever before, chiefly the children of contrabands who fled north and somehow got separated from their youngsters. Last month Brown’s assistant, a white girl responsible for teaching the children, left him to marry and move to the West—” He broke off. She wanted to speak.
“Thad, I know Scipio Brown.”
“Indeed! I thought it a possibility—”
She nodded. “I met him at Belvedere during the war. My brother George and his wife were operating a branch of Brown’s orphanage there. They took in all the children he couldn’t handle here in Washington.”
“Then you’re quite familiar with his work. Good. Are you interested in the vacancy?”
“Perhaps.”
“Hardly an enthusiastic answer.”
“I’m sorry. It’s an honest one.” How could she explain that because Stout had abandoned her and she was estranged from her family, she felt little enthusiasm for anything?
He opened the carriage door. “Well, a brief visit will do no harm.”
Walking slowly with the aid of his cane, he led her inside. He introduced her to the Dentons, a middle-aged black couple who lived at the orphanage, cooking and cleaning for the twenty-two children presently in residence.
Seven of the youngsters, a clamorous, cheerful lot, were adolescents. The others ranged all the way down to four. Stevens knew each name. “Hello, Micah. Hello, Mary Todd—Liberty—Jenny—Joseph.” He clucked and fussed among them, touching hands, kissing cheeks, embracing them as if they were his grandchildren. Again Virgilia realized that Thad Stevens was not one of those Radicals who promoted equality for political reasons.
“Here’s a handsome friend of mine.” Stevens’s clubfoot turned awkwardly as he picked up a laughing light brown boy of six. The boy wore a clean, patched shirt and overalls.
“Tad for tadpole. Or Tad Lincoln. Or a tad of trouble. He’s a little of each.” Stevens hugged and kissed the boy. ‘Tad, this is my friend Miss Hazard. Can you shake hands?”
Solemn, wary of her, Tad thrust his hand out. Virgilia felt unexpected tears.
“How do you do, Miss Hazard?” Tad said, very properly.
“I—” Dear God, she was stricken silent. The resemblance wasn’t exact, yet close enough to bring exquisite pain. He could have been a child of her slain lover, Grady. It took a huge effort to master her shock and say, “I’m very fine, thank you. I hope you are too.”
The boy grinned and nodded. Stevens patted him again and put him down. He scurried off. With a sniff, the congressman took note of the pleasing odor drifting from the kitchen. “What’s that on the stove, Mrs. Denton?”
“Okra gumbo for supper, Congressman.”
They turned at the sound of the front door. A tall, amber-colored man came in, shaking rain off his hat. His shoulders were broad as a stevedore’s, his waist small as a girl’s. Virgilia guessed him to be around thirty-five now. He immediately gave her his hand.
“How do you do, Miss Hazard? It’s very good to see you again.”
“Mr. Brown.” She smiled, remembering that she’d been attracted by his lean good looks before. He was still handsome, but he’d matured; he charmed her with an easy cordiality:
“I regret we met but once in Lehigh Station. I heard of you often afterward.”
“Not in a complimentary way, I imagine.”
“Why, I wouldn’t say that.” He smiled at her. “The congressman told me you might be interested in helping to teach these children.”
“Well—”
“Is that gumbo, Mrs. Denton? I missed my noon meal. Will you join me, Miss Hazard? Thad?”
“It’s damp outside, and okra gumbo always warms me up,” Stevens said. “I’ll have a spoonful or two. You, Virgilia?”
She didn’t know how to refuse, and she found she didn’t want to. They sat down with bowls of the savory soup. While she chatted with Brown and Stevens, her eyes strayed often to the small, merry boy who reminded her so much of Grady. The sight of his innocent face, untouched as yet by the cruelties his color would inspire, pushed her near to tears again. And then to a sudden, startling thought. Sam was gone. Even at the start of their affair, she had known she probably couldn’t hold him forever. Perhaps it was time to put the rancor and grief behind her. Time to care for someone who could benefit from love, as old Miss Tiverton could not.
She saw, like an apparition, the dead Southern soldier in the field hospital. She stared at her hands. Others could not see blood on them, but she could. The blood would never wash away. But she might begin to atone for it.
Finishing his soup, Stevens said he had a late afternoon meeting with members of the Committee of Fifteen. Scipio Brown didn’t press Virgilia for an answer, but he expressed his interest in having her at the orphanage and shook her hand strongly to say goodbye. He had a direct way about him, and no small amount of pride in his eyes and his bearing. She liked him. In the carriage lurching south toward the center of the city, Stevens rested his hands on the knob of his cane. She thought of a lion. An old lion, but one still driven by blood instinct.
“I fall in love anew whenever I visit those waifs, Virgilia.”
“I can understand. They’re very appealing.”
“How do you look on the opportunity there?”
She gazed at passing hovels built of scrap lumber and canvas. From muddy lanes and windows without windowpanes or shutters, dark brown faces turned toward the fine carriage. A woman of seventy or more squatted in the drizzle, smoking a corncob pipe and trying to cook bits of food on the top of a tin can set in smoldering wood chips. Rain dripped from the woman’s nose and chin. The smoke from her pipe was thin as thread. She was motionless on her haunches; only her eyes moved with the carriage. Eyes that had probably seen shackles, sun-scorched fields, filthy cabins, loved ones torn away and sold—
“Virgilia? How—”
“Favorably, Thad. Quite favorably.”
The old man squeezed her hand. “You would be good for them. I think they would be good for you. I know you cared for Sam. But he belongs to the past, I think.”
Weeping at last, Virgilia could only nod and turn away. The old haunted eyes of the squatting woman were lost in the gray murk.
In Georgetown that evening, she gave Miss Tiverton’s nephew polite but final notice.
31
ASHTON STEPPED INTO THE June sunshine like a queen emerging fro
m her palace. The building she quitted was not that, but a frame boardinghouse on Jackson Street, right on the edge of one of Chicago’s roughest areas, a warren of hovels called Conley’s Patch. For months, Ashton had been caged there in a single large, grimy room, together with Will Fenway and his mountains of construction drawings, cost estimates, supplier bids, loan papers. She hated it.
Even more than that, she hated the anonymity Will had imposed on her since leaving Santa Fe. She wanted a photograph of them together; he refused. There must be no pictures of her, ever, he said. What if the señora in Santa Fe still had the authorities hunting for the killer of her brother-in-law? Whenever Will mentioned that, a strange glint came into his watery blue eyes; a look Ashton didn’t understand.
This morning, as she stood letting the pleasant sunshine bathe and warm her, she did resemble, if not a queen, then a woman of high station and good income. Her dress and matching hat were bright red silk; there were twelve yards of material in the gored skirt alone. Beneath it, supported by a canvas belt around her waist, a bustle formed by six springlike wires gave a provocative lift to the rear of the skirt. The bustle was a new fashion; very modish. It was hell’s torture to put on and wear, but she certainly liked the way it enhanced her sexual appeal.
Unfortunately, on the fringes of Conley’s Patch, she appealed to the wrong sorts. A seedy, bleary-eyed roughneck came weaving toward her from a lane between packing-box shanties.
“Hello, lovely.” He blocked the plank walk, stinking like a whiskey works. His bloodshot eyes roved over her breasts. “I reckon from that dress you’re a working girl. How much?”
Ashton’s lips compressed. One delicate red-gloved hand whipped up her red parasol and laid it hard on his cheek. She shoved her other glove under his nose. The outline of a huge square wedding diamond showed through the fabric.
“You dirty, illiterate wretch. I’m a respectable married woman.”