Love and War nas-2

by Джон Джейкс

  Stanley took pleasure in retorting, "The government doesn't use the term."

  Pennyford backed him up. "In military circles, Mrs. Hazard, the word shoe signifies footwear for a lady. Mighty odd, if you ask me. Strikes me there's plenty that's odd in Washington."

  "To the point, Mr. Pennyford," Stanley broke in. "Could that rusty machinery downstairs manufacture large quantities of this item and do it quickly and cheaply?"

  "Quickly? Ayah — once I effect some repairs the present owners couldn't afford. Cheaply?" He flicked one of the samples with a finger. "Nothing could be cheaper than these. Two eyelets — only pegs twixt the sole and upper —" One wrench of his strong hands separated the two parts of the right shoe. "These are a disgrace to the cordwainer's trade. I'd hate to be a poor soldier boy wearing them in mud or snow. If Washington sees fit to issue such trash to our brave lads, Washington is more than odd; Washington's contemptible."

  "Spare me your moralizing, please," Stanley said, seeming to inflate as he did so. "Can the Lashbrook Footwear Company turn out this kind of bootee?"

  Reluctantly: "Ayah." He leaned forward, startling Stanley. "But we can do much better. There's this fellow Lyman Blake who has invented the greatest advance in factory equipment I've ever seen, and I have been in the trade since I apprenticed at age nine. Blake's machine sews the uppers and sole together swiftly — cleanly — securely. Another man will soon be manufacturing the machine — Blake lacked capital and sold his design — but I'll wager that within a year his invention will bring this industry and the entire state back to life."

  "Not quite, Mr. Pennyford," Isabel countered with a smile meant to put him in his place. "What will bring prosperity back to Massachusetts and the shoe industry is a long war and contracts that can be obtained by well-connected men like my husband."

  Pennyford's cheeks grew dark as ripe apples. Alarmed, Stanley said, "Mr. Pennyford was only trying to be helpful, Isabel. You will stay on, won't you, Dick? Manage the factory as you did before it closed?"

  Pennyford stayed silent quite a while. "I would not like to do this kind of work, Mr. Hazard. But, candidly, I have nine children to house, feed, and clothe, and there are many factories shuttered in Lynn, and few jobs. I will stay — on one condition. You must permit me to run things my own way, without interference, so long as I produce the agreed-upon product, in the agreed-upon quantity, by the agreed-upon date."

  Stanley whacked the desk. "Done!"

  "I think the whole place can be had for about two hundred thousand," Pennyford added. "Lashbrook's widow is desperate for cash."

  "We will locate the representatives of the estate and call on them immediately."

  Purchase was arranged by noon the next day, with virtually no haggling. Stanley felt euphoric as he helped Isabel board a south­bound train at the grimy depot. Seated in the overheated dining car enjoying eggs and bacon — Isabel loathed his plebeian taste in food — he couldn't contain his enthusiasm.

  "We found a treasure in that Dick Pennyford. Now what about buying some of those new machines he described?"

  "We ought to weigh that carefully." She meant she would do the weighing. "We needn't worry whether our shoes are durable, only that we deliver enough of them to make money. If the new machines will speed up production — well, then, perhaps."

  "We'll make money," Stanley exclaimed as the train swayed around a bend. The whistle howled. The summer storm continued to dash rain against the glass beside their table. "I'm confident of it. Why, do you realize" — he forked eggs into his mouth, speaking while chewing — "you and I will soon be perfect examples of the boss's definition of a patriot?"

  "What's that?"

  "Someone infused with love of the old flag and an appropriation."

  He continued to eat and chew vigorously. Isabel was pensive. She left her broiled fish untouched and sat with gloved hands under her chin, her eyes fixed on the dreary landscape streaming by. "We mustn't confine our thinking to narrow limits, Stanley."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I heard some fascinating gossip before we left Washington. Certain industrialists are said to be hunting ways and means to trade with the Confederacy in the event of a long war."

  Stanley clacked his fork to his plate. His lower jaw had dropped down in front of the napkin stuffed into his collar. "You aren't suggesting —"

  "Imagine an arrangement," she went on, low-voiced, "by which military shoes were privately exchanged for cotton. How many shoe factories are there down South? Few or none, I'll bet. Imagine the need — and the price you could get for a bale of cotton if you resold it up here. Multiply the price several thousand times and think of the profit. Enormous."

  "But that kind of trade would be — " He sensed someone hovering and glanced up. "We're not finished, boy." He supplemented the remark with a glare at the black waiter, who left again. The table cut into Stanley's paunch as he whispered: "It would be dangerous, Isabel. Worse than that, it would be treason."

  "It could also be the way to make not merely a profit but a fortune." Like a mother with a slow child, she patted his pudgy hand. "Don't rule it out, my sweet."

  He didn't.

  "Finish your eggs before they get cold."

  He did.

  22

  Faint sounds. From far away, he thought in the first seconds of waking in the dark. Across the tent, Ambrose emitted one of his characteristic snores, a malignant mix of whistles and buzzing.

  Charles lay on his right side. His linen underdrawers were soaked with sweat. The humidity was fierce. As he thought about reaching over to poke Ambrose and silence him, the sound separated into recognizable elements: night insects and something else. Charles held his breath and didn't move.

  Even with his cheek pressed to the camp bed, he could see the tent entrance. Open. A silhouette momentarily blocked the glow of a guardpost lantern. He heard the intruder breathing.

  He's after the sword.

  It lay in its oiled-paper wrapping on top of the small trunk at the foot of the bed. Should have found a safer place. He prepared himself as best he could, fear edging into him. It was a hard position from which to rise suddenly, but he did it, bolting up from the waist. As he gained his feet he let out a growl he hoped would confuse and frighten the thief.

  Instead, it woke Ambrose. He uttered a wild yell as Charles lunged at the shadow-man who was picking up the sword. "Give me that, damn you."

  The thief drove an elbow into Charles's face. Blood spurted from his left nostril. He staggered, and the thief dove into the street of neatly spaced tents and raced left, away from the picket post where the lantern shone. Bleeding and swearing, Charles went after him.

  He could pick out a few details of the thief's appearance. He was heavy and wore white gaiters. One of Rob Wheat's Tigers, by God. Serbakovsky's warning came to mind. That evening he dined with the prince, Charles had been feeling too good to detect or even worry about the presence of someone outside, someone who must have spied on the party through the netting, seen the saber —

  His arms and legs pumped. Blood trickled down his upper lip; he spat it away. Stones and burrs hurt his bare feet, but he kept gaining. The thief looked back, his face a round blur. Charles heard Ambrose hollering just as he hurled himself forward, his feet leaving the ground a second before his hands caught the waist of the thief's blue-and-white sultan's bloomers.

  The man screamed an obscenity; both fell. Charles landed on the back of the man's legs, badly jarred. The thief dropped the sword and struggled to turn beneath Charles and get free, kicking all the while. A gaitered boot knocked Charles's head back. The Tiger jumped up.

  Dazed, Charles grabbed the man's left leg and pulled him down again — along with the huge bowie knife he had yanked from a belt sheath. Charles whipped his head aside to avoid a cut that would have sliced away most of one cheek.

  The Tiger pushed Charles over. His head hit a rock. "Corporal of the guard! Corporal of the guard!" Ambrose was bellowing. Charles could wel
l be dead before help arrived; he had gotten a look at the thief, so it would be safer for the man to leave a corpse.

  He dropped on Charles's chest with both knees. He had a round face, pug nose, curly mustachios. He smelled of onions and dirt. "Fuckin' Carolina fop," he grunted, holding the bowie with both hands and forcing the point down toward Charles's throat.

  Frantic, Charles locked his hands under the thief's wrist and pushed up — pushed. God, the bastard was strong. He shifted a knee into Charles's groin and put weight on it. Blinded by sweat and the pain, Charles almost couldn't see the knife blade as it dipped to within three inches of his chin.

  Two inches.

  One —

  "Jesus," Charles moaned, tears in his eyes because of the knee crushing his balls. One more moment and his throat would be slashed. He gambled he could hold the thief's wrist with one hand, thrust the other upward —

  His left hand moved. The knife edged down. Charles found the thief's hair and pulled. The man shrieked, his attack thrown off. Slippery fingers released the bowie. Falling, it raked Charles's left ribs lightly. As the thief tried to stand, Charles grabbed the knife and buried three inches of it in a thigh.

  The Tiger screamed louder. He toppled over and crashed in the weeds some yards beyond the last tent, the knife sticking from his fine striped pantaloons.

  "You all right, Captain Main?"

  Rising, Charles nodded to the noncom, first to reach him; other men poured down the dark tent street and surrounded him. The thief moaned and thrashed in the weeds.

  "Take him to the surgeons to have that leg tended. Make sure someone fastens a ball and chain on his other ankle so he's around when his regiment court-martials him."

  The noncom asked, "What did he do, sir?"

  Charles wiped bipod from his nose with his bare wrist. "Tried to steal my dress sword." No honor code among these recruits, he thought with bitterness. Maybe I'm a fool, hoping for a rule-book war. He picked up the scabbarded blade from where it had fallen and trudged away.

  Wide awake and excited, Ambrose wanted to discuss the incident. Charles held a scrap of rag to his nose until the bleeding stopped, then insisted they turn in. He was spent. Barely asleep, he bolted up again.

  "What in the name of God —"

  The nature of the noise registered. Men, right outside, singing "Camptown Races" loudly enough for Richmond to hear it.

  "They're serenading you, Charlie," Ambrose whispered. "Your own boys. If you don't go out and listen, they'll be insulted."

  Groggy and skeptical, Charles pushed the tent flap aside, then shivered with an unexpected emotional reaction to the tribute. A wind had sprung up, blowing from the direction of the seacoast. The mist was gone and the moon was visible; so were faces he recognized. The men must have heard of the thief's capture. They were honoring him in a traditional way.

  Some were honoring him, he amended; he counted eleven.

  Ambrose danced up and down like a boy, breaking out his flute to accompany the singers. Over his shoulder, Charles said, "They'll expect the usual reward for a serenade. Haul out our private stock of whiskey, will you?"

  "Glad to, Charlie. Yes, indeed."

  The men liked him for a change. While it lasted, he might as well enjoy it.

  23

  On July 1, a Monday, George arrived in Washington. He checked into his hotel, then took a hack to an area of huge homes set far apart on large lots. The driver pointed out the residence the Little Giant had occupied for such a short time. Stephen Douglas had died in June, strongly supporting the President he had opposed as a candidate last year.

  Housing was scarce in Washington. Stanley and Isabel had been fortunate to hear of an ailing widow no longer able to keep up her home. She packed off to live with a relative, and Stanley signed a year-long lease. He had provided this information and the address in a recent note so stiffly worded that George felt sure Cameron had insisted Stanley write it for purposes of departmental harmony. Why had the old bandit meddled? George thought irritably. The note had forced this response — a duty call with all the charm of a tumbril ride in the French Revolution.

  "Mighty fine place," the hackman called as they drove up. "Mighty fine" hardly covered it. Stanley's home, like those nearby, was a mansion.

  A butler informed him that Mr. and Mrs. Hazard were in New England. The servant had a snide and condescending manner. Maybe Isabel gives them demonstrations, George thought with cheerful spleen.

  Inside, he spied unopened packing crates. Evidently they had just moved in. George left his card and jumped in the hack again, smiling. No need to call a second time; not this trip.

  He ate alone in the hotel dining room, where he overhead some speculative talk about old General Patterson, said to be ready to march from Harpers Ferry into the Shenandoah. In his room, George tried to read the latest Scientific American but couldn't concentrate. He felt nervous about the interviews scheduled for next morning.

  At half past nine, he arrived at the five-story Winder Building on the corner of Seventeenth Street across from President's Park. The original brick had been brightened up by a coat of plaster and an ironwork balcony on the second floor. George studied this and found it wanting in style. He couldn't manufacture every piece of iron in America, but he often wished he could.

  He moved past sentries on duty to protect the important government officials headquartered here; one was General Scott. Entering the building was like diving under the sea on a sunny day. Going up the gloomy iron stairs, he noticed the bad state of the woodwork and paint peeling everywhere.

  Civilians with portfolios or rolled-up plans packed the benches in the second-floor corridor. Clerks and uniformed men traveled from doorway to doorway on mysterious errands. George stopped a captain and was directed through another door into a stone-floored office of appalling disorder. At rows of desks, other clerks wrote or shuffled papers. Two lieutenants argued over a clay model of a cannon.

  George and Wotherspoon had found the flaw in the casting process, and organization of the bank was proceeding smoothly, so he had a clear conscience about this visit — though at the moment he had a wild urge to flee.

  A middle-aged officer approached, radiating importance. "Hazard?" George said yes. "The chief of Ordnance is not here as yet. I am Captain Maynadier. You may sit and wait — there, next to Colonel Ripley's desk. I regret I have no time to chat. I have been in this department fifteen years and have never once caught up with my paperwork. Paper is the curse of Washington."

  He waddled off and went exploring among several mountains of it landscaping his desk. Someone had told George that Maynadier was an Academy man. Though all West Point graduates were supposed to be brothers, friends, George would be happy to make an exception.

  He took a chair. After twenty minutes, he heard shouting in the hall.

  "Colonel Ripley!"

  "If you'll only give me a moment —"

  "May I show you this —?"

  "Han't got time."

  The irascible voice preceded an equally irascible lieutenant colonel, a sharp-featured old fellow from Connecticut, Academy class of '14. The chief of the Ordnance Department carried his official burdens and his sixty-six years with notable displeasure.

  "Hazard, is it?" he barked as George rose. "Han't got much time for you, either. Do you want the job or not? Carries the rank of captain till we can get you a brevet. All my officers need brevets. Cameron wants you in here, so I guess it's cut and dried if you say yes."

  Hat and dress gauntlets were slapped on the desk during the foregoing. Ripley's verbal tantrum would have been funny to anyone not connected with the department — or thinking of being connected. A distinct silence — fear? — had descended on the high-ceilinged room the moment Ripley entered.

  "Sit down, sit down," the colonel said. "The Hazard works has a contract from this department, don't it?"

  "Yes, sir. We'll meet it on schedule."

  "Good. Better than a lot of our suppliers can say.
Well, ask me questions. Talk. We're due in the park in half an hour. The secretary wants to see you, and since he's the one who put me in this job two months ago, I reckon we'll go."

  "I do have one important question, Colonel Ripley. You know I'm an ironmaker by trade. How would that help me fit in here? What would I do if I worked for you?"

  "Supervise artillery contracts, for one. You also run a huge manufactory, which I presume takes organizational skill. We can use it. Look at the mess I inherited," he cried with a sweeping gesture. Maynadier, whose desk was adjoining, renewed his attack on the paper peaks with a haste approaching frenzy.

  "I'd welcome your presence, Hazard — long as you don't bother me with newfangled proposals. Han't got any time for those. Tested weapons are the best weapons."

  Another Stanley. Foursquare against change. That was a definite negative. George began to understand why the colonel's critics called him Ripley Van Winkle.

  They discussed pay and how soon he could report — details he considered secondary. He was in a mood as sour as Ripley's when the colonel consulted a pocket watch and proclaimed them two minutes late to meet Cameron.

  Out they dashed through the barricades of bodies. Several contract seekers followed Ripley downstairs, shrill as gulls chasing a fishing boat. One man, yelling about his "remarkable centrifugal gun" that would hurl projectiles "with the fury of a slingshot," knocked George's hat off with brandished plans.

  "Inventors," Ripley fumed as he crossed the avenue. "Ought to ship every last one back to the madhouses they came from —"

  Another innovation no doubt infuriating to the colonel floated above the trees of President's Park. Guy ropes secured its empty observation basket to the ground. George recognized Enterprise, the balloon featured in last month's illustrated papers. It had been exhibited in this same location not many days ago, and Lincoln was said to have been interested in its potential for aerial observation of enemy troops.