Love and War

by John Jakes

  Unable to compose himself or banish the memory of his visitor, Dills took a small brass key from his waistcoat. He unlocked a lower desk drawer, reached in for a ring of nine larger keys, and used one to enter the office closet. In the dusty dark, another key opened an iron strongbox. He drew out its contents. One thin file.

  He examined the old letter which he had first read fourteen years ago. Starkwether, ailing, had given it to him permanently last December. The letter filled both sides of the sheet. His eyes dropped to the signature. The effect of reading that instantly recognizable name was always the same. Dills was stunned, astonished, impressed. The letter said in part:

  You used me, Heyward. Then you left me. But I admit I shared a certain pleasure and cannot bring myself to abandon altogether the result of my mistake. Knowing the sort of man you are and what matters most to you, I am prepared to begin paying you a substantial yearly stipend, provided you accept parental responsibility for the child—care for him (although not necessarily in a lavish manner), help him in whatever way you deem reasonable—but most important, diligently monitor his whereabouts in order to prevent any circumstance or action on his part or the part of others which might lead to discovery of his parentage. Need I add that he must never learn my identity from you? Should that happen, whatever the reason, payment of the stipend will cease.

  Dills wet his lips with his tongue. How he wished he had met the woman, even for an hour. A bastard would have smirched her name and spoiled her possibilities, and she had been clever and worldly enough to know that at eighteen. She had married splendidly. Again he turned the sheet over to gaze at the signature. Poor vengeful Bent would more than likely crack apart if he saw that last name.

  The paragraph above it was the one of most direct interest to him:

  Finally, in the event of your death, the same stipend will be paid to any representative you designate, so long as the boy lives and the above conditions are met.

  At his desk, Dills inked his pen again, pondering. Alive, Starkwether’s son was worth a good deal of money to him; dead, he was worth nothing. Without interfering too directly, perhaps he should see that Bent was spared hazardous duty out West.

  Yes, definitely a good idea. Tomorrow he would speak to a contact in the War Department. He jotted a reminder on the foolscap, tore it off, and poked it well down into his waistcoat pocket. So much for Bent. Other duties pressed.

  Starkwether’s employers had become his, and they were interested in the possibility of New York City seceding from the Union. It was a breathtaking concept: a separate city-state, trading freely with both sides in a war whose length the gentlemen could to some extent control. Powerful politicians, including Mayor Fernando Wood, had already endorsed secession publicly. Dills was researching precedents and preparing a report on potential consequences. He returned the letter to the strongbox and after three turns of three keys in three locks resumed work.

  14

  “WHAT THE HELL DID we do wrong?” George said, flinging away the stub of his cigar. It landed in front of the small, plain office building in the heart of the huge Hazard Iron complex.

  “I honestly don’t know, George,” Christopher Wotherspoon replied with a glum look.

  George’s expression conveyed his fury to the hundreds of men streaming along the dirt street in both directions; the early shift was leaving, the next arriving. George didn’t care if they saw his anger. Most would have heard the detonation when the prototype columbiad exploded on the test ground chopped out of the mountainside in a high, remote corner of the property. The big eight-inch smoothbore, cast around a water-cooled core by Rodman’s method, had destroyed its crude wooden carriage and driven iron fragments big as daggers into the thick plank barrier protecting the test observers.

  “I simply do not know,” George’s superintendent of works repeated. It was the second failure this week.

  “All right, we’ll adjust the temperature and try again. We’ll try till hell freezes. They’re screaming for artillery to protect the East Coast, and one of the oldest ironworks in America can’t turn out a single working gun. It’s unbelievable.”

  Wotherspoon cleared his throat. “No, George, you misapprehend. It is war production. So far as I know, this works has never manufactured cannon before.”

  “But, by God, we should be able to master—”

  “We will master it, George.” Wotherspoon weighted the second word. “We will meet the delivery date specified in the contract and do so with pieces that perform satisfactorily.” He risked a smile. “I guarantee it because Mr. Stanley helped us win the bid, and I am not anxious to displease him.”

  “I don’t know why,” George growled, staring at the faces passing. “You could knock him out with one punch.”

  “True, but one ought to be frugal with time. That would be a squandering of it.”

  The dry, donnish jest did nothing to improve George’s mood. Still, he appreciated the young Scotsman’s effort. And he knew Wotherspoon understood the reason for his impatience. It would be impossible for him to leave Hazard’s or even think seriously about Cameron’s offer until he was sure the company could fulfill the contract.

  He had no doubts about Hazard’s doing it, provided the problem wasn’t one of method. He and Wotherspoon had repeatedly gone over the calculations together—and Wotherspoon was nothing if not thorough. That was one reason George had promoted the young bachelor so quickly.

  Wotherspoon, thirty, was a slender, slow-spoken, sad-eyed sort with wavy brown hair and a merciless ambition concealed behind impeccable manners. He had apprenticed at a dying ironworks run by successors of the great Darby family at Coalbrookdale, in the valley of the Severn, the same part of England from which the founder of the Hazard family, a fugitive, had fled in the late seventeenth century. As the dominance of the Severn’s iron trade diminished, Wotherspoon had chosen emigration to America over a shorter journey to the new factories in Wales. He had arrived in Lehigh Station four years ago in search of a job, a wife, and a fortune. He had the first and was still in pursuit of the others. If he solved the riddle of the flawed castings, George knew he could place day-by-day control of Hazard’s in the Scotsman’s hands and never worry.

  He was certain he must leave Lehigh Station and serve; his quandary was a simple question: Where? By pulling a few wires, he could certainly obtain a field command, lead a regiment. Although he loathed combat, it was not fear that rendered the idea unappealing, but a conviction that his experience would be of greatest use in the Ordnance Department, which meant Cameron and Stanley and Isabel. What a damned, dismal choice.

  Wotherspoon broke the glum reverie. “Why don’t you go home, George?” Until a year ago, the younger man had addressed him as sir. Then mutual friendship and trust, and George’s request, put them on a first-name basis. “I shall spend a while reviewing the Rodman notes once more. Somehow or other, I suspect the fault lies with us. The inventor of the process graduated from your school—”

  “That’s right, class of ’41.”

  “Then he can hardly be wrong, can he, now?”

  This time, George laughed. He lit another cigar and spoke with it clenched in his teeth. “Don’t try to sell that opinion in Washington. Half the pols down there think West Point caused the war. Stanley’s last letter said Cameron intends to crucify the place in a report he’s going to issue. And I’m thinking of working for him. I must be daft.”

  Wotherspoon compressed his lips, his version of a smile. “No, no—we live in an imperfect world, that’s all. You might also consider this: It’s conceivable that you could help West Point more there than you could here.”

  “That’s crossed my mind. Good night, Christopher.”

  “Good night, my friend.”

  Trudging the dusty street among lines of men flowing in both directions, George heard someone sneer about the test failure. He squared his shoulders and hunted for the offender, but of course couldn’t find him. The jibe didn’t bother him long; he knew
that no owner could be popular with every person who worked for him. Besides, respect mattered more than popularity. Respect and peace with his own conscience. Hazard’s paid fair wages. George operated no company store to hold his people in thrall. And he refused to hire children.

  A headache started above his eyes. So many problems lately. The bad castings. Brett’s unhappiness. The possibility of a War Department attack on West Point—

  Stanley’s letter, pretending to be informative, had actually been meant as an irritant, and George knew it. Referring to the Academy as a “seedbed of treason,” his brother said the secretary had cited lax discipline and a vague but sinister “Southern predisposition” to explain why so many regular officers had defected. He shouldn’t even consider working for a hack like that.

  Of course Wotherspoon had stated one good reason for a contrary view. George’s Washington lawyer stated another. In two recent letters, he’d described the urgent need for men of talent and honor to offset the hordes of incompetents already placed in jobs by their political patrons. Thank heaven he didn’t have to decide today.

  The climb to Belvedere was tiring in the wet, heavy air of late afternoon. He took off his black alpaca coat, loosened his string cravat, and inhaled and exhaled vigorously as he walked. Occasionally some cigar smoke went scorching down his throat, but he was used to that.

  On the dusty path, he stopped to gaze up at the mountains. He recalled the lessons his dead mother had tried to pass on to him. He saw the emblem of the most important one above him on the summits—the mountain laurel, tossing in the wind.

  His mother, Maude, had instilled in George her own mystic feeling about the laurel. Hardy, it endured the worst of weathers. So did the Hazards, she said. The laurel was strength born of love, she said. Nothing save love could lift men above the meanness woven through their natures and all their days.

  She had talked of the laurel when he wondered about the wisdom of bringing Constance to Lehigh Station, where Catholics were largely scorned. He had repeated her words when Billy despaired of Orry Main’s temporary opposition to his marriage with Brett.

  Endurance and love. Perhaps it would prove enough. He prayed so.

  On Belvedere’s long, broad veranda, he caught his breath. Sweat ran on his neck and soaked his shirt. He was home sooner than usual. It was a rare chance to relax in a tepid bath with a cigar. Perhaps he could reason out the cause of the cannon shattering. A frown on his face, he let himself in quietly and started upstairs, stopping in the library for the copybook containing his notes on the Rodman process.

  “George? You’re early. What a grand surprise.”

  He turned toward the door.

  “I thought I heard you come in,” Constance continued as she entered. Starting to kiss him, she held back. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

  “The heat. It’s infernal out there.”

  “No, it’s something else. Ah—the test. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  He slung his coat over his shoulder, affecting nonchalance. “Yes. We failed again.”

  “Oh, George, I’m so sorry.”

  She gave herself then, tightly and closely. One cool arm encircled his damp neck while her sweet mouth kissed. Amazing how it helped. She was the laurel.

  “I have a piece of good news,” she said presently. “I finally heard from Father.”

  “A letter?”

  “Yes, today.”

  “Good. I know you’ve been anxious. Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that. Come along and have a glass of cold cider, and I’ll explain. The cider’s turned a little—it’ll lift your spirits better than cook’s lemonade.”

  “You lift my spirits,” he said, closing his fingers as she clasped his hand. He took pleasure in letting her lead him out of the library.

  When George read the letter, he understood her puzzling answer. “I can appreciate his disgust with Texas. Patrick Flynn loves a great many things about the South, but slavery isn’t one of them. But California? Is that the answer?”

  “Not to my way of thinking. Imagine trying to start a new law practice at his age.”

  “I doubt he’d have a problem with that,” George said, picturing the ruddy attorney who’d come to the Gulf Coast from County Limerick. George sat on the yard-square chopping block in the large kitchen, his feet dangling six inches above the floor. The cook and her helpers worked and chatted as if the Hazards weren’t there. Constance strove to maintain a relaxed household; except for money matters, there were few secrets.

  George sipped the cold cider. It had a bite worthy of a saloon. Noting that his preceding remark hadn’t reassured his wife, he said, “He’s a tough, adaptable fellow, your father.”

  “But he’ll be sixty this year. And California isn’t safe. In this morning’s paper, I read a dispatch about Southerners plotting to set up some kind of second confederacy on the Pacific coast.”

  “That’s a common rumor these days. One week it’s California, the next Chicago.”

  “I still say the trip would be too long and hard and dangerous. Father’s old and all alone.”

  He smiled. “Not quite. He travels with an eminently dependable guard and companion. I mean that Paterson Colt with the barrel a foot long. I’ve never seen him without it. Don’t you remember when he wore it to our wedding? Furthermore, he’s expert at using it.”

  Constance wouldn’t be soothed. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  George finished the cider and looked earnestly into the blue eyes he loved so well. “Pardon my impertinence, Mrs. Hazard, but I don’t believe you can do anything. I didn’t notice a request for permission in that letter. It merely says he’s going, and he wrote it on April thirtieth. I expect he’s halfway across the Sierras by now.”

  “Oh, good Lord—the date. I was too worried to notice it.” She snatched the letter from the chopping block, glanced at the first page, and softly said, “Oh!” a second time. He jumped down and hugged her to help as she’d helped him. They left the kitchen, going upstairs, where he undressed for his bath.

  “I’m sorry if I seemed cross downstairs,” she said while he peeled off sweaty cotton drawers. Naked, he wrapped his arms around her again.

  “Not cross. Understandably concerned. I’m afraid I was sarcastic with you. I apologize.”

  “We’re even.” She locked her hands behind his head and gave him a kiss. They held motionless for ten seconds, comfort flowing from one to the other. Such moments were as close as George ever came to understanding the nature of human love.

  He took note of the physical side asserting itself. “If we keep this up, I won’t get a bath.”

  She sniffed. “Which you definitely need.”

  With a mock roar, he flung her backward on the bed, tickling her till she gave her usual plea for mercy. He set off for the bathroom, turned back at the door. “We do have some problems we can do something about. Cameron’s invitation, for one.”

  “The decision’s yours, George. I don’t want to be any closer to Stanley and Isabel than necessary. But I know you feel there are more important considerations.”

  “I wish I didn’t. Congressman Thad Stevens said Cameron would steal a red-hot stove.”

  “I have a suggestion. Why don’t you go to Washington and talk to some of the Ordnance people? It might help you decide.”

  “Splendid idea. I can’t do it till we solve the problem of the castings, though.” He thought a moment. “Do you think I could stand to work near Stanley? I took control of Hazard’s away from him, banned his wife from this house—I even hit him once. He hasn’t forgotten. And Isabel’s vindictive.”

  “I know that all too well. You must take all of that into consideration. But if you do accept, I’ll follow with the children as soon as I can.”

  His nod showed his troubled state of mind as he walked out of sight. She remained seated on the bed. The room was still; the curtains hung straight; the breeze had died. She understood her hus
band’s uncertainty because she shared it. Old beliefs and relationships had been shattered by this crisis the press had already named “a war of brothers,” even though no major battles had been fought. Just as she worried about her father, George feared for the well-being of his friend Orry and for Madeline, the woman Orry loved. How insignificant and helpless they all seemed; single strokes on some giant’s canvas whose final design no one could see.

  Discussion of the Cameron offer resumed at supper. Looking refreshed in a clean white shirt, George told Brett that Constance had made a very practical suggestion. He would go to Washington before he made up his mind.

  “Will you take me with you?” Brett exclaimed. “I could see Billy.”

  “I can’t go immediately.” He explained the reason and watched her bright hope tarnish before his eyes. Guilty, he let his thoughts race. It wasn’t ten seconds before he continued. “But here’s another possibility. I have two important contracts that must go to my attorney down there. I suppose I could find some trustworthy older fellow around the office—he could take them. You could go, too.”

  “You still won’t allow me to go alone?”

  “Brett, we disposed of that subject weeks ago.”

  “Not to my satisfaction.”

  “Don’t get angry. You’re an intelligent and capable young woman. But Washington’s a cesspool. You don’t belong there by yourself—even if we disregard your unmistakably Southern speech, which makes you a target for all sorts of hostility. No, this other way’s better. I’ll find a man and have him ready to go within a day or two. Pack your valise and stand by.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, rushing around the table to hug him. “Can you forgive my bad temper? You two have been so kind, but I’ve seen so little of Billy since we were married—”

  “I understand.” He patted her hand. “Nothing to forgive.”