North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  Slowly, however, the second reason for the visit asserted itself. “Mr. Powell—”

  His laughter boomed. “I should think we know each other well enough to use first names.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Scarlet, she flung a wet strand of black hair off her forehead. His humor had cruelty in it. “I wanted to speak to you about business. I control the money in my household. Do you still have room for another investor in your maritime syndicate?”

  “Possibly.” Eyes like opaque glass hid whatever he was thinking. “How much can you put in?”

  “Thirty-five thousand dollars.” Investing that amount would leave only a few thousand in the event the scheme failed. But she didn’t believe it would fail, any more than she had believed Powell would not bed her if she called on him.

  “That sum will give you substantial equity position in the vessel,” he said. “And in her profits. Does your decision mean your husband changed his mind?”

  “James knows nothing about this, and he won’t until I decide it’s appropriate to tell him. He will also know nothing about my calling here today—or in the future.”

  “If there are any calls in the future.” That was meant to make her squirm and worry. She didn’t care for it.

  “There will be if you want the money.”

  He leaned back, smiling. “I need it. As soon as I have it, we’ll be in a position to proceed.”

  “I’ll bring a draft next time we meet.”

  “Bargain. By God, you’re a find. There are damn few men in this town with your nerve. We’re a matched pair,” he said, rolling over and bending to kiss her bare belly. This time, he was the one who fell asleep afterward.

  Ashton had a box her husband had never seen. Into it went mementos of romantic liaisons lasting a month or a week or a night. The box, from Japan, was lacquered wood with designs inlaid in cleverly cut bits of pearl. On the lid, a couple sipped tea. The inside of the lid pictured the same couple, but they had doffed their kimonos and were copulating with broad smiles. The artist had composed the design so that the genitals of both partners were distinctly shown. Considering the size of the gentleman’s machine, Ashton could understand the woman’s happy expression.

  The souvenirs she kept in the box were trouser buttons. She had started her collection long before the war, after visiting Cousin Charles when he was a cadet at West Point. It was the custom in those days for a girl to exchange a little gift for her cadet escort—sweets of some kind were the most common—for a prized button from his uniform tunic. Ashton entertained not one but seven cadets in a single evening in the smelly darkness of the post powder magazine. From each she demanded an unconventional souvenir: a button from the fly of his trousers.

  Now, while Powell slept, she crept from bed, found the pants he had flung on the floor, and silently tugged and twisted till one of the buttons popped free. She put this into her reticule and slipped back into bed, pleased. When the button was safely in the box, her collection would number twenty-eight—one for each man who had received her favors. This did not include the boy who had initiated her when she was a mere girl, one other boy, and a highly experienced sailor with whom she had had relations before her West Point visit inspired the collection. The only other partner not represented by a button was her husband.

  37

  WASHINGTON HAD SCAPEGOAT WEATHER that autumn. McDowell continued to be castigated, but Scott now shared the blame for Bull Run. And almost nightly Stanley came home with some new Cameron horror story. The boss was being universally scourged by bureaucrats, press, and public.

  “Even Lincoln’s joined the claque. Our spy in the Executive Mansion saw some notes made by his secretary, Nicolay.” He pulled out the scrap on which he had penciled the alarming quotes. “President says Cameron utterly ignorant. Selfish. Obnoxious to the country. Incapable of either organizing details or conceiving and executing general plans.” He gave her the scrap. “There was more, in the same vein. Damning.”

  They were taking supper by themselves; it was their custom, because, by day’s end, Isabel was exhausted from dealing with the hostility of her twin sons, their resistance to discipline, and the near-lethal pranks meant to drive off the tutor she had engaged when it became evident they would never behave in a private schoolroom. She generally packed the twins off to eat in the kitchen—which suited them perfectly.

  She studied the paper, then said, “We’ve waited too long, Stanley. You must disassociate yourself from Cameron before they lop off his head.”

  “I’m willing. I don’t know how.”

  “I’ve thought and thought about it. I believe we can be guided by what happened to that fool Frémont.” The famous Pathfinder, military commander in St. Louis, had independently declared all slaves in Missouri free. The declaration had pleased the congressional radicals, but Lincoln, still treating border-state whites with extreme deference for fear of losing them, had countermanded the order. “There is a definite schism, and we must gamble on one of the sides winning.”

  Baffled, Stanley shook his head and plied his fork. “But which?” he said with his mouth full of lobster.

  “I can best answer by telling you who I entertained this afternoon. Caroline Wade.”

  “The senator’s wife? Isabel, you constantly astonish me. I didn’t know you were even acquainted with her.”

  “Until a month ago I wasn’t. I took steps to arrange an introduction. She was quite cordial today, and I believe I convinced her that I’m a partisan of her husband and his clique—Chandler, Grimes, and the rest. I also hinted that you were unhappy with Simon’s management of the War Department but felt helpless because of your loyalty to him.”

  Instantly pale, he said, “You didn’t mention Lashbrook’s—?”

  “Stanley, you are the one who commits blunders, not I. Of course I didn’t. But what if I had? There’s nothing illegal about the contracts we obtained.”

  “No, just in the way we obtained them.”

  “Why are you so defensive?”

  “I’m worried. I hope to Christ those bootees hold up in winter weather. Pennyford keeps warning me—”

  “Kindly cease your foul language and stick to the subject.”

  “I’m sorry—go on.”

  “Mrs. Wade didn’t say so explicitly, but she left the impression that the senator wants to form a new congressional committee, one that would curb the dictatorial powers the President is assuming and oversee conduct of the war. Surely a committee like that would make Simon’s removal one of its first orders of business.”

  “Do you think so? Ben Wade is one of Simon’s staunchest friends.”

  “Was, my dear. Was. Old alliances are shifting. Publicly, Wade may stand fast in support of the boss, but I’ll wager it’s a different story behind the scenes.” She leaned closer. “Is Simon still out of town?”

  He nodded; the secretary had gone on a tour of the Western theater.

  “Then it’s the perfect opportunity. You won’t be watched too closely. Go see Wade, and I’ll order the invitations for a levee I’m planning for his wife and the senator and their circle. I may even invite George and Constance, for the sake of appearances. I suppose I can stomach her arrogance for an evening.”

  “All very fine, but what am I supposed to say to the senator?”

  “Keep quiet and I’ll explain.”

  Their meal forgotten, he sat listening, scared to the marrow by the thought of approaching the toughest and most dangerous of the radicals. But the more Isabel said—first urging, then insisting—the more convinced he became that Wade represented their means of survival.

  Next day he secured the appointment, though it wasn’t until the end of the week. The delay upset his digestion and ruined his sleep. Several times fear prodded him to plead for a different strategy. Wade was too close to Cameron; it would be smarter to approach the President’s senior secretary, Nicolay.

  “Wade,” Isabel insisted. “He’ll be receptive, because it’s always possibl
e to do business with scoundrels.”

  So it was that Stanley turned up on a bench in Senator Benjamin Franklin Wade’s antechamber on Friday. His stomach hurt. He clutched the gold knob of his cane as if it were some religious object. The hour of the appointment, eleven, went past. By a quarter after, Stanley was sweating heavily. By half past, he was ready to bolt. At that moment Wade’s office door opened. A small, stocky man with spectacles and a magnificent beard strode out. Stanley was too terrified to move.

  “Morning, Mr. Hazard. Here to take care of some departmental business?”

  Say something. Cover yourself. He was positive his guilt showed. “It’s—actually, it’s personal, Mr. Stanton.” The small but intimidating man who stood polishing his wire-frame glasses was, like Wade, an Ohioan; a Democrat who had long been one of the best and most expensive Washington lawyers, and, more recently, Buck Buchanan’s attorney general. He was also Simon Cameron’s personal attorney.

  “So was mine,” Edwin Stanton said. His whiskers exuded a strong smell of citrus pomade. “I apologize that my appointment ran over into yours. How is my client? Back from the West yet?”

  “No, but I expect him soon.”

  “When he returns, convey my regards and say I’m at his disposal to help draft his year-end report.” With that, Stanton vanished into the Capitol corridors, which still stank of greasy food cooked while volunteer troops were quartered in the building, sleeping in the Rotunda and lolling at congressional desks and conducting mock legislative sessions when the hall was empty.

  “Go in, please,” Wade’s administrative assistant prompted from his desk.

  “What? Oh, yes—thanks.” Numb from the unexpected encounter with Stanton and mortally afraid of the encounter to come, he entered and shut the door. His palms felt as if they had been dipped in oil.

  Ben Wade, once a prosecutor in northeastern Ohio, still had that air about him. He had come to Washington as a senator in 1851 and remained for a decade. During the crisis of Brown’s raid, he had carried two horse pistols to the Senate floor to demonstrate his willingness to debate Mr. Brown’s behavior in any manner his Southern colleagues chose.

  Stumbling toward the senator’s big walnut desk, Stanley was intimidated by the scornful droop of Wade’s upper lip and the gleam of his small jet eyes. Wade was at least sixty but had a kind of tensed energy that suggested youth.

  “Sit down, Mr. Hazard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I recall we met at a reception for Mr. Cameron earlier this year. But I’ve seen you since. Bull Run, that was it. Paid two hundred dollars to rent a rig for the day. Disgraceful. What can I do for you?” He fired the words like bullets.

  “Senator, it’s difficult to begin—”

  “Begin or leave, Mr. Hazard. I am a busy man.”

  If Isabel was wrong—

  Wade locked his hands together on the desk and glared. “Mr. Hazard?”

  Feeling like a suicide, Stanley plunged. “Sir, I’m here because I share your desire for efficient prosecution of the war and appropriate punishment for the enemy.”

  Wade unclasped his hands and laid them on the burnished wood. Strong hands; clean, hard. “The only appropriate punishment will be ruthless and total. Continue.”

  “I—” It was too late to retreat; the words tumbled forth. “I don’t believe the war’s being managed properly, Senator. Not by the executive”—Wade’s eyes warmed slightly there—“or by my department.” The warmth was instantly masked. “I can do nothing about the former—”

  “Congress can and will. Go on.”

  “I’d like to do whatever I can about the latter. There are”—his belly burning, he forced himself to meet Wade’s black gaze—“irregularities in procurement, which you surely must have heard about, and—”

  “Just a moment. I thought you were one of the chosen.”

  Baffled, Stanley shook his head. “Sir? I don’t—”

  “One of the Pennsylvania bunch our mutual friend brought to Washington because they helped finance his campaigns. I was under the impression you were in that pack—you and your brother who works for Ripley.”

  No wonder Wade was powerful and dangerous. He knew everything. “I can’t speak for my brother, Senator. And, yes, I did come here as a strong supporter of our, ah, mutual friend. But people change.” A feeble grin. “The secretary was a Democrat once—”

  “He is ruled by expediency, Mr. Hazard.” The pitiless mouth jerked—the Wade version of a smile. “So are all of us in this trade. I was a Whig until I decided to become a Republican. It’s beside the point. What are you offering? To sell him out?”

  Stanley paled. “Sir, that language is—-”

  “Blunt but correct. Am I right?” The frantic visitor looked away, his cheeks damp with cold sweat. “Of course I am. Well, let’s hear your proposition. Certain members of Congress might be interested. Two years ago, Simon and Zach Chandler and I were inseparable. We made a pact: an attack on one would be considered an attack on all, and we’d carry retaliation to the grave if necessary. But times and attitudes—and friends—do change, as you have sagaciously observed.”

  Stanley licked his lips, wondering whether the unsmiling senator was mocking him.

  Wade went on: “The war effort is foundering. Everyone knows it. President Lincoln’s dissatisfied with Simon. Everyone knows that, too. Should Lincoln fail to act in the matter, others will, much as they might regret it personally.” A brief pause. “What could you offer to them, Mr. Hazard?”

  “Information on contracts improperly let,” Stanley whispered. “Names. Dates. Everything. Orally. I refuse to write a word. But I could be very helpful to, let’s say, a congressional committee—”

  A verbal sword slashed at him. “What committee?”

  “I—why, I don’t know. Whichever has jurisdiction—”

  Satisfied by the evasion, Wade relaxed slightly. “And what would you ask in return for this assistance? A guarantee of immunity for yourself?” Stanley nodded.

  Wade leaned back, brought his hands up beneath his nose, fingertips touching. The jet eyes bored in, pinning his caller, expressing contempt. Stanley knew he was finished. Cameron would hear of this the instant he returned. Goddamn his stupid wife for—

  “I am interested. But you must convince me you’re not offering counterfeit goods.” The prosecutor leaned toward the witness. “Give me two examples. Be specific.”

  Stanley burrowed in his pockets for notes Isabel had suggested he prepare to meet such an eventuality. He served Wade two small helpings from his tray of secrets, and when he finished, found the senator’s manner distinctly more cordial. Wade asked him to speak to the assistant outside and arrange a meeting at a more secure location where Wade could receive the disclosures without fear of interruption or observation. Dazed, Stanley realized it was all over.

  At the door, Wade shook his hand with vigor. “I recall my wife mentioning a levee at your house soon. I look forward to it,”

  Feeling like a battle-tested hero, Stanley lurched out. Bless Isabel. She had been right after all. There was a conspiracy to unseat the boss, either through congressional action or by presentation of damning information to the President. Was it possible that Stanton was in the scheme, too?

  No matter. What counted was his deal with the old crook from Ohio. Like Daniel, he had walked among lions and survived. By midafternoon he was convinced it was all his doing, with Isabel’s role incidental.

  38

  HIS NAME WAS ARTHUR Scipio Brown. He was twenty-seven, a man the color of amber, with broad shoulders, a waist tiny as a girl’s, and hands so huge they suggested weapons. Yet he spoke softly, with the slight nasality of New England. He had been born in Roxbury, outside Boston, of a black mother whose white lover deserted her.

  Early in his acquaintance with Constance Hazard, Brown said his mother had sworn not to surrender to the sadness caused by the man who had promised to love her always, then left, or by the way her color impeded her e
ven in liberal Boston. She had spent her mind and her energy—her entire life, he said—serving her race. She had taught the children of free black men and women in a shack school six days a week and given different lessons to pupils in a Negro congregation every Sunday. She had died a year ago, cancer-ridden but holding her boy’s hand, clear-eyed and refusing laudanum to the end.

  “She was forty-two. Never had much of a life,” Brown said. It was a statement, not a plea for pity. “No braver woman ever walked this earth.”

  Constance met Scipio Brown at the reception for Dr. Delany, the pan-Africanist. In his splendid dyed robes, Delany circulated among the fifty or sixty guests invited to the Chase residence, enthralling them with his conversation. It was Delany who had brought young Brown to the reception.

  Falling into conversation with Brown, George and Constance were fascinated by his demeanor as well as his history and his views. He was as tall as Cooper Main, and though he was not well dressed—his frock coat, an obvious hand-me-down, had worn lapels and sleeves that ended two inches above his wrists—he didn’t act self-conscious. The clothes were probably the best he owned, and if people were scornful, the problem was theirs, not his.

  When Brown said he was a disciple of Martin Delany, Constance asked, “You mean you’d leave the country for Liberia or some equivalent place, given the chance?”

  Brown drank some tea. He handled the cup as gracefully as anyone present. “A year ago, I would have said yes immediately. Today, I’m less certain. America is viciously anti-Negro, and I imagine it will remain so for several generations yet. But I anticipate improvements. I believe in Corinthians.”

  Standing with his head back a few degrees, which was necessary when George conversed with extremely tall men, he said, “I beg your pardon?”