by John Jakes
“Delays are to be expected of someone in your position,” Brady said smoothly. “No harm done.” He hadn’t become successful and prosperous by insulting important clients. He was a slender, bearded man nearing forty, expensively outfitted in a black coat, smart gray doeskin trousers, a sparkling shirt, and a black silk cravat that flowed down over a matching doeskin vest. He wore spectacles.
With crisp gestures, Brady signaled a young assistant, who repositioned the big gold clock against the red drapery backdrop. The clock face bore the name Brady, as did almost everything else in his business, including his published prints and his field wagons, one of which Stanley had seen overturned along the Bull Run retreat route.
“The light’s marginal today,” Brady observed. “I don’t like to make portraits when there is no sun. The exposures are too long. Since this is a portrait for Christmas, however, we shall try. Chad?” He snapped his fingers, gestured. “To the left slightly.” The assistant jumped to move the tripod bearing a white reflector board.
Brady cocked his head and studied the truculent twin sons of Mr. and Mrs. Hazard. “I believe I want the parents seated and the boys behind. They are active young fellows. We shall have to clamp their heads with the immobilizers.”
Laban started to protest, but a growl from Stanley cut it short. The sitting lasted three-quarters of an hour. Brady repeatedly dove under the black hood or whispered instructions to the assistant, who slammed the huge plates into the camera with practiced haste. At the end, Brady thanked them and suggested they speak to the receptionist about delivery of the portrait. Then he hurried out. “Evidently we’re not important enough to see him more than once,” Isabel complained as they left.
“Oh, for God’s sake, can’t you ever worry about anything except your status?”
More in surprise than anger, she said, “Stanley, you’re in a perfectly vile temper this morning. Why?”
“Something terrible’s happened. Let’s send the boys home in a hack, and I’ll explain over some food at Willard’s.”
The sole with almonds was splendidly prepared, but Stanley had no appetite for anything but pouring out his anxiety. “I managed to get hold of a draft copy of Simon’s annual report on departmental activities. There’s a section they say Stanton drafted. It states that the government has the right and perhaps the obligation to issue firearms to contrabands and send them to fight their former masters.”
“Simon proposes to arm runaway slaves? That’s bizarre. Who’s going to believe the old thief has suddenly turned into a moral crusader?”
“He must think someone will believe it.”
“He’s lost his mind.”
Stanley eyed the tables around them; no one was paying attention. He leaned toward his wife and lowered his voice. “Here’s the grisly part. The entire report has gone to the government printer—but not to Lincoln.”
“Does the President usually review such reports?”
“Review them and approve them for publication, yes.”
“Then why—?”
“Because Simon knows the President would reject this one. Remember how he overturned Frémont’s emancipation order? Simon’s desperate to get his statement into print. Don’t you see, Isabel? He’s sinking, and he thinks the radicals are the only ones who can throw him a line. I don’t think they’ll do it, for the very reason you sensed. Simon’s ploy is transparent.”
“You’ve been helping Wade—won’t that save you if Cameron goes down?”
He pounded a fist into his other palm. “I don’t know!”
She ignored the outburst and pondered. In a few moments, she murmured, “You’re probably right about Simon’s motive and the reason he doesn’t want Lincoln to see the report until it’s printed. Whatever happens, don’t be lulled into speaking in support of that controversial passage.”
“For God’s sake why not? Surely Wade will endorse it. And Stevens, and I don’t know how many others.”
“I don’t think so. Simon is a trimmer, and the whole town knows it. The mantle of the moralist looks ludicrous on him. He’ll never be allowed to wear it.”
She was right. When an early copy of the report reached the President, he ordered an immediate reprinting with the controversial passage removed. The day it happened, Cameron stormed about the department speaking in a shout. He sent a messenger to the offices of Mr. Stanton at half past nine. He dispatched the same boy to the same destination shortly after noon and again at three. It didn’t take great intelligence to guess that Cameron’s lawyer, now acknowledged as the writer of the passage, was, for whatever reason, not answering his client’s appeals for help.
“The damage is done,” Stanley said to Isabel the next evening. Ashen, he handed her a copy of Mr. Wallach’s Evening Star, the city’s strongly Democratic—some said pro-Southern—paper. “Somehow they got hold of the report.”
“You told me the passage had been removed.”
“They got the original version.”
“How?”
“God knows. It would be just my luck for someone to accuse me.”
Isabel ignored his guilt fantasies, musing, “We could have passed the report to the papers ourselves. It’s a rather nice touch. Sure to heat the bipartisan fires. Neither party wants to see guns passed out to the darkies—yes, a nice touch. I wish I’d thought of it.”
“How can you smile, Isabel? If the boss goes down, I may be dragged along. I don’t know whether Wade found any of my information useful or whether I gave him enough. I haven’t seen him since the party here. So nothing’s assured—” He thumped the dining table with his fist; his voice rose, shrill. “Nothing.”
She closed her fingers on his wrist and let him feel her nails. “The ship is in a storm, Stanley. When a ship is in a storm, the captain ties himself to the wheel and rides it out. He doesn’t run whimpering belowdecks to hide.”
The scorn—the comparison—humiliated him. But it did nothing to relieve his fears. He fretted and tossed in bed, getting little more than three hours of solid sleep.
Next morning, he jumped in his chair when Cameron shot into his office with a file of footwear and clothing contracts he had just approved. The haggard secretary disposed of business in a few sentences, then asked, “Haven’t seen Mr. Stanton anywhere about town, have you, my boy?”
Stanley’s heart hammered. Did it show? “No, Simon. It isn’t likely that I would. He and I don’t move in the same circles at all.”
“Oh?” Cameron gave his pupil an odd stare. “Well, I can’t seem to locate him, and he won’t answer messages. Curious. The fellow who wrote the very words that got me in the soup won’t say a damn thing in defense of them. Or me. I’ve shown myself to be on the side of Wade’s bunch, but they don’t want me. Stanton acts as if he’s on the President’s side, but last week I heard him call Abe the Original Gorilla. Understand Little Mac got quite a chuckle out of that. I’m still trying to find out how the report reached the Star—” His eye fixed on Stanley again. He knows. He knows.
Cameron shook his head. There was something sad about him now. He seemed less competent, less sure. A mere mortal, and a tired one. A bitter smile appeared. “I’d call it all mighty queer business if I didn’t know its real name. Politics. By the bye—did you and Isabel receive an invitation to the President’s levee for McClellan?”
“Y-yes, sir, I believe Isabel mentioned that we did.”
“Hmm. I failed to get mine. Fault of the postal service, don’t you suppose?” Looking as if he had alum in his mouth, he darted another look at his subordinate. “Must excuse me, Stanley. Got a lot to do before I surrender my portfolio. They’ll be asking for it any day now.”
He went out with a sprightly step. Stanley pressed his palms to the desk and shut his eyes, dizzy. Had he pulled it off? Had Isabel pulled it off?
46
I AM, GEORGE THOUGHT, too damned much of a cynic.
Not so, argued a second side of him. You have just become, in short order, a Washingtonia
n.
The hack’s back wheels bumped into a splattery mudhole, lurched out again. A few more blocks and he’d be back at Willard’s, where a small dinner was being given to honor the visitor from Braintree.
A light snow fell. The town George sometimes referred to as Canaille on the Canal looked pretty as an engraving. Shining Christmas lights temporarily obscured the vapid minds behind the eyes of the bureaucrats; the deep, piney smell of greens temporarily masked the stink of fear, damp, and cavelike cold pervading everything this December. Despite the splendor of the martial reviews General McClellan had staged here and in Virginia throughout the autumn, and despite the general’s frequent predictions of forthcoming victory, George wondered whether any substance supported the show. He hated his own faithless attitude, but he wondered.
He had just come from the arsenal, where Billy was encamped with his battalion—happy enough, though displaying a certain shortness of temper. George knew that to be a common symptom of winter quarters. Yesterday Constance had returned from another short trip to Lehigh Station; Brown had gone up with her and planned to stay a few more days to settle in some more children. Brett had sent Christmas packages with Constance. Delivering Billy’s was the excuse that had taken him to the arsenal.
The brothers had discussed the visitor from Braintree. Billy had heard about the private party but hadn’t been invited. In an effort to make him feel better about that, George said, “Hell, I’ll probably be the most junior shoulder strap in attendance. I was warned that half of Little Mac’s staff would be there, though not the general himself.”
“Have you ever met the guest of honor?” Billy hadn’t.
“Once, after a graduation. Can’t claim I know him.”
At the hotel, George rushed to the suite, kissed his wife, hugged his children, brushed his hair and mustache, then dashed downstairs again, late for the reception preceding the dinner for Superintendent Emeritus Sylvanus Thayer. Seventy-six and long retired, Thayer had come down from Massachusetts to attend the levee for McClellan.
A formidable quantity of brain and brass filled the parlor: sixty or seventy officers, most of them colonels or brigadiers. The West Point bond minimized boundaries between ranks. Protected from the curious by closed doors, the old grads enjoyed generous portions of port or fine bourbon poured by black men in hotel livery. George was thankful Brown had quit his job as porter and accepted a salary arrangement the Hazards had proposed so he could devote full time to the children.
A large crowd surrounded the slender and exceptionally fit-looking Thayer, so George fell into conversation with another major and a colonel, both of whom he remembered from Mexico. Half the regular officers in the army had served there.
Two brigadiers joined the group—men George knew from the class ahead of his. Baldy Smith and Fitz-John Porter both had divisions. Smith seemed irked by the surroundings, the refreshments, the lighting—he had that kind of disposition—but George still liked him better than Porter. Even in his Academy days, Porter had struck George as showy and prone to boasting—like the general to whose staff he now belonged.
Bourbon relaxed the men; they were soon reminiscing as equals. Thayer walked to the group, warmly greeting each officer. He had a phenomenal memory; it was a vast permanent file of the names and careers of every graduate, even those like George and the brigadiers who had gone through the place long after his tenure.
“Hazard—yes, certainly,” Thayer said. “Where are you now?” George told him. “Pity. You had an excellent record at the Academy. You belong in the field.”
Not wanting to offend the guest, George responded with care. “I never felt I had a talent for soldiering, sir.” What he meant was a taste for it.
Baldy Smith snorted. “What we’re doing in Virginny isn’t soldiering; it’s cattle droving.”
To the abattoir? George thought; he still had nightmares about Bull Run. He smiled and shrugged. “I went where I was asked to go.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.” Directness was Thayer’s style.
“I don’t believe I should comment on that, sir.”
“That kind of answer qualifies you to be a general,” said another brigadier, a jovial Pennsylvanian named Winfield Hancock whom George was glad to have join the group. Presently they all sat down at a great horseshoe table for a huge meal centered around capon and prime steer beef. The whiskey and port flowed, and various dinner wines; by the time Thayer was introduced, George was ready to slide under the table. He couldn’t hold back a belch. On his right, Fitz-John Porter cleared his throat and silently disapproved.
Thayer’s voice was thin, but he spoke with passion. He stated a fact already known to those in the room: West Point was once again under attack. This time, however, the attack carried special danger because of the effort to fix blame on the Academy for the resignation of all the officers who had gone south. Thayer pleaded for each man to make a personal pledge to defend the school if, as he feared, Congress attempted to destroy it by removing its appropriation.
“I am cheered,” he said, “to see so many of you serving the nation that educated you and gave you a proud profession. I know you have the stamina to stay the course. I was dismayed by many newspaper articles I read before the great battle in July, articles that said the struggle would be quickly concluded. Knowing our brother officers from the states in rebellion—their intelligence, their courage, their records, which remain as fine as yours except in one fatal respect—I would counter every one of those assertions with one of my own.”
No sound then except the gas hissing. The frail old man held every eye. Thick layers of cigar smoke gave the speaker and the scene a kind of infernal unreality.
“An assertion that you know as a principle and a truth. It requires three years to build an efficient army. Even then, when such an army is in place, it must endure great tribulation in order to win. War is not a Sabbath rest or a summer picnic. Those, of you who campaigned in Mexico remember. Those of you who campaigned in the West remember. War extracts a mighty toll in human life and human sorrow. Be ever mindful of that. Be strong. Be patient. But be certain, too. You shall prevail.”
When he sat, the stamping and shouting were thunderous. They sang “Benny Haven’s, Oh!” and even George the Cynical had moist eyes by the last verse. Later, for Constance, he quoted as much of Thayer’s speech as he could remember. The closing passage haunted him in the sleepless small hours of the night.
The great levee for Major General George Brinton McClellan took place as the year wore away in a continuing atmosphere of doubt and hidden struggle. Gossip flew; pronouncements abounded. The Trent captives would be released because the Union could not afford to do without niter. Formation of the new Joint Congressional Committee on the Conduct of the War would be announced at any hour. McClellan would crush the Confederacy in the spring. Didn’t he issue frequent statements to that effect? McClellan’s detractors said he had intrigued to have gouty old Scott removed so the post of general-in-chief would also be his.
The Executive Mansion shone with lights, hummed with conversation, resounded with the holiday airs played by a string ensemble as the privileged guests arrived. George promised to introduce Constance to his old classmate, but only after he had surveyed the territory from afar, so to speak.
McClellan looked hardly older than when he and George had boned for exams together. He had grown a dramatic auburn mustache but was otherwise much the same stocky, assured fellow George recalled from the class of ’46. Everything about him, from his fine, bold nose to his wide shoulders, seemed to make a single statement. Here is strength; here is competence. He had returned to the army from the railroad business in Illinois, and his brilliant ascendancy made George feel more than slightly inferior.
Brilliant was the word, all right. An aura of celebrity surrounded the McClellans as they circulated in the crowd. Close after the general trotted two of his numerous European aides, the merry young French exiles the Comte de Paris and the Duc de C
hartres. Silly hostesses had renamed them Captain Parry and Captain Chatters.
It was McClellan to whom all the eavesdroppers listened when he and his wife engaged the President and Mrs. Lincoln in conversation. Since establishing himself in an H Street house in defiance of those who said he should live in camp, McClellan had left no doubt about which person, President or general-in-chief, was the more important. The town still talked of a November incident. One evening Lincoln and another of his secretaries, young John Hay, had gone to H Street on government business. The general wasn’t home yet. An hour later he arrived. He went straight upstairs without seeing the visitors, was informed the President was waiting, and went to bed. Some said Lincoln was infuriated, but he tended to cover such emotions with a blend of Western modesty and good humor. Unlike McClellan, arrogance was not his style.
“Plenty of politicians here,” George said to Constance from the side of his mouth. “There’s Wade—he’s to run the new committee. There’s Thad Stevens.”
“His wig’s crooked. It’s always crooked.”
“Are you playing Isabel tonight?”
She whacked his braided sleeve with her fan. “You’re horrid.”
“On the subject of horrid—I see the lady herself. And my brother.”
Stanley and Isabel had not as yet noticed George and Constance. All their attention was given to Wade, then to Cameron, who showed up alone and was circulating with an air Stanley could only characterize as conspiratorial. How had he gotten an invitation? Cameron saw them but avoided them. What did that signify?
Stanton spoke tête-à-tête with Wade, not even acknowledging the presence of his client. Stanley felt less like a Judas; others were selling, too, it appeared. But what? To whom? For what purpose? He felt like an ignorant child who knew he was ignorant.
“I’ll bet Stanton wants Simon’s job,” Isabel said behind her unfolded fan. “That would explain why you saw him skulking around Wade’s office and why he failed to defend or even take responsibility for the original report.”
