by John Jakes
Isabel loathed the apelike Westerner, but never more so than when she read his declaration that he was seeking the legal means for making this contest a short, and a decisive one.
Legal, when he had just asked Scott to suspend habeas corpus in certain military districts between Washington and New York? The man’s pronouncements were twaddle. He was already behaving like an emperor.
Two sections of the message did please her. Although Lincoln hoped for a short war, he had asked Congress to place four hundred thousand men at his disposal. Isabel saw eight hundred thousand Jefferson boots.
Further, the President didn’t spare the military academies:
It is worthy of note that in this, the government’s hour of trial, large numbers of those in the army and navy who have been favored as officers have resigned and proved false to the hand which had pampered them.
Splendid. When her egotistical brother-in-law arrived, perhaps she could make capital of the rising anti-West Point sentiment. News that George would be coming to town had been waiting when she and Stanley returned from New England. She had also learned that he had called at the mansion, a sham courtesy resulting from Cameron’s insistence that Stanley write a conciliatory note welcoming the brother who had once knocked him down. The whole incident infuriated her.
George remained a West Point loyalist, but many influential people wanted the institution abolished. Most with that goal belonged to a new clique that was forming: an alliance of senators, congressmen, and cabinet officers from the extreme pro-abolition wing of the Republican party. Kate Chase’s father belonged, it was said; so did the clubfooted old wreck from Isabel’s home state, Congressman Thad Stevens. How she would use this information to hurt George was still nebulous. But use it she would.
Isabel had been watching the new radical clique slowly coalesce. She already knew certain facts, one of the most important being that the foxy Mr. Cameron carried no weight with the group.
The radicals favored an aggressive war and harsh terms when it was won. Lincoln held different views on the war and on slavery. He didn’t want all the Negroes freed to rampage and rape and rob white men of jobs. Neither did Isabel. But that wouldn’t prevent her from cultivating the wives of the radicals if doing so offered some advantage.
At dinner that evening, she brought up Lincoln’s message. “He is saying exactly the same thing we’ve heard from certain congressmen. West Point trained traitors at public expense and should be closed. That sentiment might be useful against your brother.”
Stanley’s unusual good cheer infuriated her—he had been grinning ever since he got home—and so did his obtuse, “Why should I want to hurt George now?”
“Have you forgotten all of his insults? And those of his wife?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“Suppose he comes here and starts asserting himself in that pushy way of his?”
“What if he does? Ordnance reports to the War Department. I outrank him. And I’m close to Simon, don’t forget.”
Did the fool believe that was a safe spot? Before she could snap at him, he continued, “Enough about George. I received two pieces of good news in today’s mail. Those attorneys we hired in Lynn—absolute charlatans, but they reached and paid off the right people. The property transfer will be pushed through quickly. I heard from Pennyford, too. He’ll have the factory ready for double-shift operation within the month—and no problem about help. There are two or three applicants for every job. We can hire children even more cheaply.”
“How wonderful,” she sneered. “We have everything we need. Except a contract.”
He shot his hand into his pocket. “We have that, too.”
Isabel was seldom speechless, but she was now. Stanley handed her the ribbon-bound document as if he had captured it in battle. “How—very fine.” She said it weakly because she didn’t mean it; he had obtained the contract on his own. Was this city or his job somehow changing him into what he had never been before? A real man? The mere possibility was profoundly upsetting.
25
SERBAKOVSKY WAS DEAD.
In the first week of July, fellow officers laid him in a coffin of raw yellow pine. Two bearded men in heavily braided uniforms appeared with a wagon and civilian driver. The Russians, who spoke only rudimentary English, carried safe-conduct papers signed by Union as well as Confederate authorities. The ease with which they had traveled from Washington in response to a courier message confirmed something Charles had heard repeatedly: going through the lines in either direction was not hard.
The blithe prince, who had missed death on so many battlefields, had been killed by a child’s disease. It was killing soldiers in epidemic numbers. Victims got up too soon, thinking themselves over the measles, and relapsed into fatal fevers. The surgeons seemed helpless.
The wagon creaked away into the hot dusk, and Ambrose and Charles went to the sutler’s to get drunk. After four rounds, Ambrose insisted on buying copies of The Richmond Songster, one of many such compilations being sold throughout the army. Charles put the songbook in his pocket and noticed a black smear on his thumbs. Damp ink. Everything was speed and opportunism these days.
A harsh surprise awaited them in their tent. Toby had disappeared, taking his master’s best boots and many personal effects. Furious, Ambrose went straight to legion headquarters, while Charles, on a hunch, rode to the Tiger encampment not far away. Sure enough, the prince’s pavilion was gone, and so were his servants.
“Bet you my pay for the year that Toby and that pair left together,” he said to Ambrose later.
“Absolutely! The Belgies can pretend Toby’s their nigra and sneak him right across the Potomac into Old Abe’s lap. The colonel granted me permission to leave and try to recover my property. But he said I needed your permission, too.” His look said Charles had better not withhold it.
Charles sank down on his bed, unbuttoning his shirt. The death, the thefts, the waiting—all of it depressed him. He didn’t believe Toby could be found—wasn’t even sure the recovery attempt should be made—but he wanted a change of scene.
“Hell, I’ll go with you if I can.”
“By God, Charlie, you’re a real white man.”
I’ll speak to the colonel first thing tomorrow,” he promised, anxious to sleep and forget.
“I don’t object to your undertaking to assist Pell,” Hampton said next morning, “provided your other subaltern and your first sergeant can handle drills.”
“Easily, sir—though I wouldn’t want to be away if we might be called up for an engagement.”
“I don’t know when we’ll fight, or if we will,” Hampton replied with uncharacteristic choler. “No one tells me anything. If you ride north, you’ll be closer to the Yankees than I am—perhaps you’ll see some action. Have Captain Barker write a pass and be back as soon as you can.”
Fatigue shadows ringed Hampton’s eyes, Charles noticed as he left. Handling a regiment all day and attending Richmond levees every night took a toll.
He and Ambrose set out at eight o’clock. Charles had donned the dress shako he seldom wore and took his shotgun, the light cavalry saber, and rations for two days. Sport frisked through the cool morning. The gelding was rested and healthy; the legion had an abundance of dry corn and plenty of pasturage near the encampment.
Charles had never thought himself capable of loving anyone or anything deeply, but he was developing a strong and unexpected liking for the quirky little gray. He knew it when he used drinking money to buy molasses to mix with Sport’s feed; molasses gave a horse extra energy. He knew it when he spent an hour rubbing down the gray with a folded piece of the softest blanket he could find; fifteen minutes would have sufficed. He knew it when he devoted free time to currying and brushing the horse and trimming his mane. He knew it especially when a careless noncom put Sport in with the troop’s bay mares at feeding time. A fight broke out, and Charles dashed among the snorting horses to lead the gray to safety. He cursed out the no
ncom, then lectured him on the importance of feeding like with like, never mixing mares and geldings.
The air today was mild and breezy, too sweet for there to be war anywhere. They inquired about the fugitives at hamlets and farms, and found the trail easy to follow. Several patrols demanded to see their passes, and Charles insisted they stop often to water the horses; an animal needed twelve gallons daily, minimum, in the summer. Charles made sure Sport stood in the shade, with hooves in water to help prevent cracking. The gray seemed nearly ready to speak when, after teasing motions toward his pocket, Charles would finally pull out the salt block and let Sport nibble and lick contentedly.
On they rode, the Blue Ridge and the sundown on their left. When Ambrose began his monotone version of “Young Lochinvar,” Charles joined in with enthusiasm.
Next morning they crossed into Fairfax County, drawing closer to Old Bory’s base at Manassas Junction, a small depot stop of no intrinsic value but considerable strategic significance; there, the Manassas Gap rail line came in from the Shenandoah to meet the Orange and Alexandria line. The trail had simply run out. They met no one who had seen two white men and a black answering the descriptions; there were just too many glens, woods, windy little roads, and hiding places up here near Linkumland.
About two, Charles said, “No use going on. We’ve lost them.”
Ambrose sighed. “Damned if I like to admit it, but I think you’re right.” He squinted into the glare. “What do you say to a stop at that farm up by the bend? My canteen’s empty.”
“All right, but then we turn around. I thought I saw a flash of blue on that ridge a minute ago.” He didn’t know how close they were to the Yankee lines and couldn’t have marked their position if it had been given to him. Reliable maps didn’t exist.
They rode the last quarter mile to the neat white house with a big green wood behind. Fine fields spread on the north side. Charles slowed Sport to a walk. “Look sharp, Ambrose. There’s another visitor here ahead of us.”
He bobbed his head toward the horse and buggy tied to an elm shading the rear of the house. As they turned into the front dooryard and dismounted, Charles thought a window curtain stirred. His neck began to itch.
He tethered Sport and carried his shotgun up to the porch, spurs clinking in the summer stillness. He knocked. Waited. Heard movement inside; muffled voices.
“Stay to one side and keep that piece ready,” he whispered. Ambrose slid up by the wall, hands on his shotgun, cheeks popping with sweat. Charles pounded the door.
“What the devil you mean, makin’ such racket?” said the poorly dressed old farmer who answered. He crowded into the opening as if to hide whatever the shadows behind him contained.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” Charles said, keeping his temper. “Captain Main, Wade Hampton Legion. First Lieutenant Pell and I are searching for a fugitive Negro and two white men, Belgians, who may have passed here on their way to Washington.”
“What makes you think so? This road takes you to Benning’s Bridge, but there’s plenty of others close by.”
Warier each second, Charles said, “I fail to understand your lack of civility, sir. Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. But I got chores waitin’.” He stepped back to shut the door.
Charles rammed his shoulder against it. The old man fell back, exclaiming. A woman uttered a little piping scream out of all proportion to her size. An elderly person with the shape and bulk of a small whale, she lumbered into the parlor entrance to block Charles’s view. He was too tall.
Terrified, the woman said, “We’re caught, Miz Barclay.”
“We shouldn’t have tried to keep him out. Unless it’s McDowell in disguise, he’s one of our own.”
The soft, tart words of the second speaker startled and confused Charles for a moment. She sounded like a Virginian, but what he saw of the young woman was decidedly suspicious. Her outer skirt was hoisted to reveal a second one, crinoline-stiffened and divided into small pockets, each of which bulged slightly. On a chair he saw four oilskin packets tied with string. All at once it dawned, and he almost laughed. He had never met a smuggler, let alone an attractive one.
“Captain Charles Main, ma’am. Of—”
“The Wade Hampton Legion. You have a loud voice, Captain. Are you trying to bring the Yankees down on us?”
Saying it, she smiled, but without friendliness. He had trouble knowing what to make of her. Her clothing wasn’t poor, but it was plain and wrinkled from travel. She was about his age and four or five inches shorter, with wide hips, a full bosom, blue eyes, and blond curls; a young woman who managed to look both robust and pretty as hell. For a few seconds he felt light-hearted as a boy. Then he remembered his duty.
“I’d better ask the questions, ma’am. May I present First Lieutenant Pell?” Ambrose entered the parlor. The old man huddled beside his wife.
“I saw him preening in the hall mirror. I’d have suspected you were South Carolina boys even if you hadn’t announced it.”
“And just who are you, if you please?”
“Mrs. Augusta Barclay of Spotsylvania County. My farm is near Fredericksburg, if that’s any of your concern.”
He began, “But this is Fairfax—”
“My. A student of geography as well as bad manners.” She leaned over to pluck packets from the underskirt. “I haven’t time to waste with you, Captain. I fear there are horsemen not far behind me. Yankees.” Plop went another packet on the chair, and plop.
“The widow Barclay’s been to Washington City,” the farmer’s wife said. “A secret errand of mercy for—”
“Sssh, don’t say no more,” the old farmer interrupted.
“Oh, why not?” snapped the young woman, whipping out packets. “Perhaps if he knows what we’re doing, he’ll help us instead of standing there like some stately pine, waiting to be admired.”
The blue eyes shot Charles a look so scornful it left him unable to speak. To the old couple, the young widow continued: “I was wrong to arrange a rendezvous this close to the Potomac. I feared someone was on to the scheme when they took ten minutes to examine my papers at the bridge. One sergeant’s eyes kept boring holes in my skirt—and I’m not that attractive.”
“I want to know what’s in the packets,” Charles said.
“Quinine. Plentiful in Washington, but scarce in Richmond. It will be desperately needed once the real fighting starts. I’m not the only woman doing this work, Captain. Far from it.”
Spurs jingling, Ambrose crossed the parlor. The widow Barclay’s prettiness and patriotism pleased Charles but not her sharp tongue. He was reminded of Billy Hazard’s sister Virgilia.
He had been a mite rough on the old couple. To the woman he said, “You may certainly help her if you wish.” The woman lumbered past, knelt behind Augusta Barclay and put her head under the widow’s outer skirt. Packets appeared twice as fast.
Addressing Charles, and still with sarcasm, the young woman said, “Generous of you. I was serious when I said there might be pursuit.”
“Damn if there isn’t,” Ambrose exclaimed from the parlor’s north window. Tense, he motioned for Charles, who peered over his shoulder and saw dust rising behind a hill a mile or two down the road.
“Must be Yanks, riding that fast.” He let the curtain fall. To the women struggling with the packets he said, “I regret my sharp words, ladies—” He hoped the widow Barclay understood he meant that for her; a slight lift of her head said perhaps. “I don’t want this commendable work undone, but it will be if we don’t move quickly.”
“Just a few more,” the fat woman panted. Packets flew right and left.
Charles signaled for the farmer to gather them, asking: “Where’s the safest place to hide those?”
“Attic.”
“Do it. Ambrose, go out and take that buggy into the trees. If you can’t get back before those horsemen come into sight, stay put. You finished, Mrs. Barclay?”
She smoothed down her outside skir
t as the farmer’s wife loaded her husband’s arms with packets. “It only takes two eyes to answer that, Captain.”
“Kindly spare me the banter and go out to the woodshed in back. Get inside and don’t utter a syllable. If that’s possible.” Surprisingly, she liked the sally and smiled.
The farmer tottered up the hall stairs. Outside, wheels creaked as Ambrose moved the buggy. Augusta Barclay hurried out.
Charles ran to the north window again. He saw the riders clearly now, approaching at a gallop. Half a dozen men, all wearing dark blue. Under his cadet gray jacket, sweat began to pour.
The farmer came down again. “Is there water in the kitchen?” Charles asked the woman.
“A bucket and a dipper.”
“Fill the dipper and bring it here. Then both of you keep still.”
He tossed his shako aside and moments later strolled out to the porch, shotgun hanging in the crook of his left arm, dipper in his right hand. He saw the riders react to the sight of him by drawing swords and side arms. The lieutenant in charge of the detail held up his hand.
The moment in which Charles could have been shot passed so quickly, it was over before he realized it. He leaned on one of the porch pillars, the beat of his heart pounding in his ears.
26
THE HORSEMEN SPILLED IN from the road, raising dust that blew away on the breeze. The barrels of several army revolvers pointed at Charles’s chest.
Red as an apple in the heat, the lieutenant walked his horse to the porch. Charles drank from the dipper, then let his hand fall laconically. He pressed his right sleeve against his ribs to hide a tremor. He had seen the young Union officer before.
“Good day, sir,” the lieutenant said. His voice broke into a squeak as he spoke. Charles didn’t laugh or smile. A nervous man—or one humiliated—often reacted without thinking.
